. . .
"Please bear one thing in mind, my dear Roddy, You are never, now
or hereafter, to pity me. _Qualis artifex_. . . . I used to
smile to myself in a cocksure youthful way when great men hinted
in great books that one had to make burnt-sacrifice of the eye's
delight, the heart's desire; the lust of the flesh, the pride of
the intellect; see them all consumed to a handful of dust, and
trample out even the last spark of that, before the true phoenix
sprang; that only when half-gods go the gods arrive. But it's
true, Roddy! It's true!
"I won't grow dithyrambic--not just yet. I was so sure of my man
that it seemed quite worth while to tumble out at Avignon--a
place I had never inspected--and fool away another spell among
Roman remains, and Petrarch and the rival Popes, and the opening
scenes of the Revolution, and just thinking--thinking.
"So I reached Monte Carlo next day, a little after noon; took a
bath and a siesta; sauntered into the Casino there, a good
forty-eight hours behind time; and caught my man, sitting.
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