There is a reason: In poetry women aretalked about
in the terms of something else.
There is one old fellow over there whose thread in
the generalpattern has nearly ravelled out. Some of the whitehairs of his beard were
caught under it.
He might have been ademocrat and SO insulted. The
old party under the stoneusually presaged trouble. Already they areforgetting what
it was in itself. Permit me to call one of mywitnesses, Beppo. He had been looking
at the growing pattern on theflagstones fixedly for some minutes now.
A burst of laughter followed to which Don Luis
paidno attention. Or perhaps, it wasthat Greek wine last night. At the very first
tonesof Don Luis voice he had been instinctively on his guard.
He and Anthonygathered their papers together
hastily and tore out.
Not upon what he is,but upon what you conceive him
to be. Have the coach around at nine thismorning.
How can you ever know enough to argue
THAT?
He tied a large napkin around Don Luis as if hehad
been a child. Yes, thought Don Luis, he and I have lived through some strangetimes
the last two decades or so.
Ah, thoualone knowest to the full my bravery, he
cried.
Some old consignment probably that had
miscarried.
Some time when it will not embarrass your modesty
as it would now,I shall do so, whispered Anthony.
I have been fortunate in some respects,
sir.
It was almostimpossible to move his hands. His mind
too,had, as it were, divided into two parts. Heflipped a solid inch of pages and
nearly broke the back of thebook. No oneremains to serve here but old
women.
He and Anthonygathered their papers together
hastily and tore out.
Only a phrase, a name,Bad times, Bonaparte. How can
you ever know enough to argue THAT?