BEELZEBUB
XVII. IN A BALCONY
XVIII. THE BROOCH
XIX. NEMESIS
XX. NOVEMBER
XXI. THE SORTIE
XXII. TOGETHER
XXIII. PERCEVAL UNASHAMED
ILLUSTRATIONS
"What I want to say is--will you be my guest at the theatre tonight?"
"You are the one woman in a thousand who knows enough to look before
she shoots!"
Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor.
He was Red November.
THE DAY OF DAYS
I
THE DUB
"Smell," P. Sybarite mused aloud....
For an instant he was silent in depression. Then with extraordinary
vehemence he continued crescendo: "Stupid-stagnant-sepulchral-
sempiternally-sticky-Smell!"
He paused for both breath and words--pondered with bended head,
knitting his brows forbiddingly.
"Supremely squalid, sinisterly sebaceous, sombrely sociable Smell!" he
pursued violently.
Momentarily his countenance cleared; but his smile was as fugitive as
the favour of princes.
Vindictively champing the end of a cedar penholder, he groped for
expression: "Stygian ... sickening ... surfeiting ... slovenly ...
sour...."
He shook his head impatiently and clawed the impregnated atmosphere
with a tragic hand.
"_Stench!_" he perorated in a voice tremulous with emotion.
Even that comprehensive monosyllable was far from satisfactory.
"Oh, what's the use?" P. Sybarite despaired.
Alliteration could no more; his mother-tongue itself seemed
poverty-stricken, his native wit inadequate.
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