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Updated: June 16, 2025
In his most sacred blue language he dilated upon the subject of snow; for Etienne was Paris-born and loved the snow with the same passion that an orchid does. "Mee-ser-rhable!" commented Etienne, and took another three fingers. "Complete, cast-iron, pussy-footed, blank... blank!" said Ross, and followed suit. "Rotten," said I. The cook said nothing.
I was now merely a spectator, and from my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the faro-dealer. "I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!" was Etienne's constant prediction.
She made an excuse and disappeared into her own room. Later I, feigning sleep, heard the following: "Mees Adams, I was almost to perish-die-of monotony w'en your fair and beautiful face appear in thees mee-ser-rhable house." I opened my starboard eye. The beard was being curled furiously around a finger, the Svengali eye was rolling, the chair was being hunched closer to the school-teacher's.
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