Her bosom heaved with a sigh. “I'm so glad,” she said. Her breath fanned my cheek. It was aromatic, intoxicating. Her lips are ripe and full.
“You had better find your husband as soon as possible,” said I.
“Do you think so?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. And it strikes me I had better go and find him myself.”
She started. “You?”
“Yes,” I said. “The Chasseurs d'Afrique are probably in Africa, and the doctors have ordered me to winter in a hot climate, and I shall go on writing a million letters a day if I stay here, which will kill me off in no time with brain fag and writer's cramp. Your husband will be what the newspapers call an objective. Good-bye!” said I, “I'll bring him to you dead or alive.”
And without knowing it at the time, I made an exit as magnificent as that of Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos.
CHAPTER VIII
I do not know whether I ought to laugh or rail. Judged by the ordinary canons that regulate the respectable life to which I have been accustomed, I am little short of a lunatic. The question is: Does the recognition of lunacy in oneself tend to amusement or anger? I compromise with myself. I am angry at having been forced on an insane adventure, but the prospect of its absurdity gives me a considerable pleasure.