"Maybe," said the young man....
One of the young women, directed apparently by Temple, came over to Peter. She sat down on the sofa and began eagerly to talk to him. She said how glad she was that he was going to join them. Although she spoke eagerly, her voice was tired, with a kind of angry, defiant ring in it. She spoke so rapidly that Peter had difficulty in following her. He asked who the men in the room were.
"That's Somers," she said, pointing to the stout man, "Hacket Somers. Of course, you know his work? I've got his new poem here. Like to see it? We shall have it in the first number of the Blue Moon."
She handed Peter a page of typed manuscript. He read it eagerly. Here, then, was the new literature. It was apparently a poem. It was headed "Wild West—Remittance Man."
The first three verses were as follows:
"Schlemihl no mother weep for
doomed for a certain time—
Rye whisky—a fungus
Works into each face—line—
The Bond-street exterior—
tears at his vitals—
gravely the whisker droops
his eyes are cold.
Immaculate meteor
Inside a thick ichos
outside a thick ether
quenched the bright music....
Peter read these three verses; then a second time, then a third. The young woman was talking fiercely as he read. She turned to him:
"Aren't they splendid?" she said. "Hacket at his best. I was a little doubtful of him, but now there's no question...."