" "Which is why perhaps," said One Eyed Dah-veed, looking two
ways at once with his uncorrelated eyes, "the Germans entered Noyon...."
But to return to Mexique.
One night we had a _soiree_, as Dah-veed called it, _a propos_ a pot of
hot tea which Dah-veed's wife had given him to take upstairs, it being
damnably damp and cold (as usual) in The Enormous Room. Dah-veed,
cautiously and in a low voice, invited us to his mattress to enjoy this
extraordinary pleasure; and we accepted, B. and I, with huge joy; and
sitting on Dah-veed's _paillasse_ we found somebody who turned out to be
Mexique--to whom, by his right name, our host introduced us with all the
poise and courtesy vulgarly associated with a French salon.
For Mexique I cherish and always will cherish unmitigated affection. He
was perhaps nineteen years old, very chubby, extremely good-natured; and
possessed of an unruffled disposition which extended to the most violent
and obvious discomforts a subtle and placid illumination. He spoke
beautiful Spanish, had been born in Mexico, and was really called
Philippe Burgos. He had been in New York. He criticised someone for
saying "Yes" to us, one day, stating that no American said "Yes" but
"Yuh"; which--whatever the reader may think--is to my mind a very
profound observation.
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