attitudes which emphasized the faulty draftsmanship.
“La Poésie!” breathed the poet; “Kesker say la poésie?”
“La poésie—say la vee!” murmured a young woman with profuse teeth.
“Wee, wee, say la vee!” cried several people triumphantly.
“Nong!” sighed the poet, spraying the hushed air with sweetness, “nong! Say pas le vee; say l’Immortalitay!”
After which the poet resumed his seat, and the by-product read, in French verse, “An Appreciation” of the works of Wilhelmina Ganderbury McNutt.
And that was the limit of the Franco portion of the Conference; the remainder being plain American.
Aphrodite, resting on her tall gilded harp, looked sullenly straight before her. Somebody lighted a Chinese joss-stick, perhaps to kill the aroma of defunct cigarettes.
“Verse,” said the poet, opening his heavy lids and gazing around him with the lambent-eyed wonder of a newly-wakened ram, “verse is a necklace of tinted sounds strung idly, yet lovingly, upon stray tinseled threads of
thought.... Thank you for understanding; thank you.”