Angelina,
the cook, was screaming at Paolo and Francesca, who were trying to boil
the cat. It was very dreary.
"Harding," I said, "you were insisting only a little while ago that life
is always beautiful."
"So it is," he replied, too listless to be defiant. "To some people."
"To whom?"
"Well, to the two here, for instance," and he pointed to a pair of
handsome lovers playing golf all over a double page in the advertising
section of his magazine. "Do you mean to say these two ever know what
ugliness is, or pain, or want? Or ever grow old? Or cease to love? Here
is the perfect life for you."
"Are you so sure of that?" said some one over my shoulder, and I turned
about sharply to look into the most entrancing face I have ever beheld
in man or woman. It was Apollo standing there above me, or if not he, at
least one of the divine youths that the Greeks have left for us in
undying marble. He made Scipione's grimy cellar luminous with beauty.
"I beg your pardon for intruding," he said, seating himself at our table
as joyously confident and as simple as an immortal should be.
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