“Aix?” said he, “for a change! God!”
“She’s collaborating with Mr. Aix.”
“Damn him and his play too.”
“Oh, not his play, George. Mother would be so grieved.”
Then George suddenly pulled a paper out of his pocket and said, “Read that aloud, child.”
“Is it a bit of your new novel?”
“Yes, it is a bit of my new novel. Read.”
I did.
“We talk and talk, and never act. Oh, this curse of civilization! You make excuses for S——, for your bitter enemy. Magnanimous, but effete! He is behaving well, but so unpicturesquely. He offers a woman no excuse for staying with him. Oh, Italy! Italy! You, magician, have made me long for the life of Italy, the silver incandescent sands, the passionate brown of the olives—but why should I try to outdo you in your own imitable manner?”
“Inimitable, you mean, don’t you, child? But no, we will not trust this white devil of Italy. Go and fetch me a plateful of cold meat. And here are the keys; go down to the cellar and get a bottle of Burgundy. Corton eighty-eight. You’ll see the label. We will carouse.”