He rose, stretched out both arms in a wide gesture and smiled with his irresistible Ancient Mariner’s eyes at the young man.
“We lunch. We eat ambrosia. Then we go out together and see the wonderful world through the glass-blood of saints and martyrs and apostles and the good Father Abraham and Louis Quatorze. Viens, mon cher ami. It is the dream of my life.”
Practically penniless and absolutely disillusioned, the amazing man was radiantly happy.
IX
THE ADVENTURE OF A SAINT MARTIN’S SUMMER
My good friend Blessington, who is a mighty man in the Bordeaux wine-trade, happening one day to lament the irreparable loss of a deceased employé, an Admirable Crichton of a myriad accomplishments and linguistic attainments whose functions it had been, apparently, to travel about between London, Bordeaux, Marseilles and Algiers, I immediately thought of a certain living and presumably unemployed paragon of my acquaintance.
“I know the very man you’re looking for,” said I.
“Who is he?”