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Updated: June 16, 2025
"To me it is seven aeons of Promethean damnation." "To me it seems only yesterday," says Andrew. "It's because you have no brain," says Bakkus. But they are good friends. Away from Paris they carry on a fairly regular correspondence. Such of Bakkus's letters as Lackaday has kept and as I have read, are literary gems with always a perverse and wilful flaw ... like the man's life.
"Oh that's it, is it?" cried Andrew, with a glare in his usually mild eyes and his ugly jaw set. They had had many passages at arms. Bakkus's sophistical rhetoric against Andrew's steady common sense; and they had sharpened Andrew's wit. But never before had they come to a serious quarrel. Feeling his power he had hitherto exercised it with humorous effectiveness.
The far off gaily dressed crowd in these exclusive demesnes shimmered before Andrew's vision as remote as some radiant planetary choir. The stir on the field, however, excited him. The sun shone through a clear air on this late meeting of the season, investing it with an air of innocent holiday gaiety which stultified Bakkus's bleak description.
I, who had received through Lackaday many lights on Bakkus's character, was at no loss to reply. "Doing? Why, snoring. He'll awake at midday, stroll round here and expect to find us smiling on the pavement. We give him five more minutes."
"You, my dear Hylton, I shall be delighted to see." The emphasis on the pronoun would have rendered his meaning clear to even a more obtuse man than myself. No Lady Auriols flaunting over to Vichy. "May I ask when you came to this decision?" I enquired. "Bakkus's note suggested only a postponement of our meeting." "Last night," said he. "That's one reason why I sent for Bakkus."
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