“Prancing Nigger, I feel I could do wid a glass ob champagne.”
Passing across a corridor, it would have been interesting to have explored the spacious vistas that loomed beyond: “Dat must be one ob de priveys,” Edna murmured, pointing to a distant door.
“Seben, Chile, did you say?”
“If not more!”
“She seem fond ob flowehs,” Mr. Mouth commented, pausing to notice the various plants that lined the way: from the roof swung showery azure flowers that commingled with the theatrically-hued cañas, set out in crude, bold, colour-schemes below, that looked best at night. But in their malignant splendour, the orchids were the thing. Mrs. Abanathy, Ronald Firbank (a dingy lilac blossom of rarity untold), Prince Palairet, a heavy blue-spotted flower, and rosy Olive Moonlight, were those that claimed the greatest respect from a few discerning connoisseurs.
“Prancing Nigger, you got a chalk mark on your ‘West-End.’ Come heah, sah, an’ let me brush it.”
Hopeful of glimpsing Vittorio, Miami and Edna sauntered on. With arms loosely entwined about each other’s hips, they made, in their complete insouciance, a conspicuous couple.
“I’d give sumpin’ to see de bedrooms, man, ’cos dair are chapels, an’ barf-rooms, besides odder conveniences off dem,” Edna related, returning a virulent glance from Miss Eurydice Edwards, with a contemptuous, pitying smile.
Traversing a throng, sampling sorbets, and ices, the sisters strolled out upon the lawn.
The big silver stars, how clear they shone—infinitudes, infinitudes.