about politics as the cultured writer of the magazine regards ‘em, and then, and not till then, pay your respects to the gentlemen who run the grimy reality.
I’m sick of interviewing night editors who lean their chair against the wall, and, in response to my demand for the record of a prominent citizen, answer: “Well, you see, he began by keeping a saloon,” etc. I prefer to believe that my informants are treating me as in the old sinful days in India I was used to treat the wandering globe-trotter. They declare that they speak the truth, and the news of dog politics lately vouchsafed to me in groggeries inclines me to believe, but I won’t. The people are much too nice to slangander as recklessly as I have been doing.
Besides, I am hopelessly in love with about eight American maidens – all perfectly delightful till the next one comes into the room.
O-Toyo was a darling, but she lacked several things – conversation for one. You cannot live on giggles. She shall remain unmarried at Nagasaki, while I roast a battered heart before the shrine of a big Kentucky blonde, who had for a nurse when she was little a negro “mammy.”
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