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I remember that there were pheasants on the table and my grandfather asked where they had come from. There had been a constant shower of delicacies rained on us from Damerstown, and we should have grown sybarites if we had cared about such things.
A flicker of light he had moved toward revealed his face, gallant, romantic enough in its happier moments, but now distinctly unpleasant, with the stamp of ancestral Sybarites of the Petersburg court shining through the cruelty and intolerance of semi-Tartar forbears. The woman laughed. How the young man, listening, detested that musical gurgle! "Patience, your Highness!"
"I have been nothing of the sort," she answered. "Of course, the last week has been a strain, but we are not going to talk any more about that. You prepared us for semi-barbarism, and instead you have made perfect sybarites of us. I can assure you that though in one way to go will be a release, in another I shall be very sorry." "And I," he said, in a low tone, "shall always be sorry."
In truth, the Sybarites, a soft and dissolute people, might very well imagine they hated life, because in their eager pursuit of virtue and glory, they were not afraid to die: but, in fact, the Lacedaemonians found their virtue secured them happiness alike in living or in dying; as we see in the epitaph that says: They died, but not as lavish of their blood, Or thinking death itself was simply good; Their wishes neither were to live nor die, But to do both alike commendably.
Of the crowds on the pavements; of the crowds in the passenger cars, elevators, lobbies, one wonders little where they are going. Answering advertisements, forsooth. Vertebrate brothers of the codfish. But these others! Ah, one stands on the curb with the vanilla phosphate playing havoc with one's blood and wonders a hatful. These sybarites of the taxis are going somewhere. Make no doubt of that.
I hope Miss Clinton ain't considering getting married to that man. He's one of these here what-do-you-call-'ems? Er " "Sybarites?" said Codge, who had picked up a good deal from conversations with Peter Snipe. "That ain't the word," said Mr. Mott. "Now, I'll lay awake all night trying to think of that word. Damn the luck!"
You're all too conceited nothing's good enough for you. BLAYNE. Not even an empty Club, a dam' bad dinner at the Judge's, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You're quite right. We're a set of Sybarites. DOONE. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in CURTISS. Prickly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler. BLAYNE. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too?
And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an epitaph to his taste." Farrar looked at her curiously. "I beg your pardon," he said. "Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject," she replied quickly; "some of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened." I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily. "Have you read The Sybarites?" she asked. Farrar was puzzled.
Because I went straight to Far Harbor and got you into a peck of trouble, right away, and then slipped quietly into Canada, and put on the outfit of a travelling salesman. And right here another bright idea struck me. Why not carry the thing farther? And let me thank you for a little sport I had in a quiet way as the author of The Sybarites. I think I astonished some of your friends, old boy."
"You say he was here in October?" asked Marian, when the laugh had subsided. "I have the date," answered our host, "for he left me an autograph copy of The Sybarites when he went away." And after dinner he showed us the book, with evident pride. Inscribed on the fly-leaf was the name of the author, October 10th. But a glance sufficed to convince both of us that the Celebrity had never written it.
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