So we sat down to dinner on Bertolini's terrace, in the light of a full
moon. O - - ate nothing whatever.
He arrived from Egypt some time ago, on his way to England. The doctor
had forbidden further travelling or any other exertion on account of
various internal complications; among other things, his heart, he told
me, was as large as a child's head.
"I hope you can stand this food," he whispered, or rather croaked. "For
God's sake, order anything you fancy. As for me, I can't even eat like
you people. Asses' milk is what I get, and slops. Done for, this time.
I'm a dying man; anybody can see that. A dying man - - "
"Something," I said, "is happening to that moon."
It was in eclipse. Half the bright surface had been ominously obscured
since we took our seats. O - - scowled at the satellite, and went on:
"But I won't be carried out of this dirty hole (Bertolini's) - not feet
first. Would you mind my gasping another day or two at your place? Rolfe
has told me about it."
We moved him, with infinite trouble. The journey woke his dormant
capacities for invective. He cursed at the way they jolted him about; he
cursed himself into a collapse that day, and we thought it was all over.
Then he rallied, and became more abusive than before. Nothing was right.
Stairs being forbidden, the whole lower floor of the house was placed at
his disposal; the establishment was dislocated, convulsed; and still he
swore.
