“What is that: Maohee?” asked Slim, irritably.
September drew his head down between his shoulders. The Irish and the British blood-corpuscles in his veins seemed to be falling out, violently: but the impenetrable Japanese smile covered this up with its mantle before it could grow dangerous.
“You don’t know what Maohee is.... Not a soul in the great Metropolis knows.... No.... Nobody. But here in Yoshiwara they all know.”
“I wish to know, too, September,” said Slim.
Generations of Roman lackeys bowed within September as he said, “Certainly, sir!” But they did not get the better of the wink of the heavy-drinking lying grandfathers in Copenhagen. “Maohee, that is.... Isn’t it odd, that, of all the ten thousand who have been guests here in Yoshiwara and who had experienced in detail what Maohee stands for, outside they know nothing more about it? Don’t walk so fast, sir. The yelling gentleman down there won’t run away from us—and if I am to explain to you what Maohee means....”
“Drugs, I expect, September—?”
“My dear sir, the lion is also a cat. Maohee is a drug: but what is a cat beside a lion? Maohee is from the other side of the earth. It is the divine, the only thing—because it is the only thing which makes us feel the intoxication of the others.”
“The intoxication—of the others....?” repeated Slim, stopping still.
September smiled the smile of Hotei the god of Happiness, who likes little children. He laid the hand of the Borgia, with the suspiciously blue shimmering nails on Slim’s arm.
“The intoxication of the others—Sir, do you know what that means? Not of one other—no, of the multitude which rolls itself into a lump, the rolled up intoxication of the multitude gives Maohee its friends...”