..
they can weather through the last jump, to New York, alone ... what does
it matter?... they're going to be butchered in a few days."
Looking about this way and that, to make sure I was unseen, I took my
grip in my hand, hopped aboard a street car outside the stockyards, and
abandoned my calves to their destiny.
Meunier welcomed me. He invited me to stay at his house for several
weeks. His pretty, young wife, smiling whimsically, showed me to a room
she had already set in dainty order for me.
* * * * *
Meunier had gone to his office....
Nichi Swartzman, the tall Japanese genius, showed up, and Bella Meunier,
Nichi, and I ate breakfast together.
Swartzman was, and is, a magnificent talker ... a torch of inspiration
burned brightly in his brain, with continual conversational fire.
But he must have his drink. Several of them. Which Laston's wife poured
for him abundantly.
After breakfast I sprawled on the floor ... I always sprawl on floors
instead of sitting in chairs....
Swartzman and Bella Meunier and I talked and talked and talked ... of
Poe ... of Baudelaire, of Balzac....
Then Nichi launched forth on a long disquisition on Japanese and Chinese
art, and Mrs. Meunier and I gladly remained silent during the whole
morning, enchanted by the vistas of beauty which Swartzman's words
opened for us.
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