in the Mercure de France,—men who thought in terms of vin ordinaire but expressed themselves in the champagne phraseology of Jules Lemaître. One was M. Espil, the editor of a violently Roman Catholic weekly. His features had sagged and were threatening to cave in, and his infantile intensity made Grover feel that the salvation of poor Espil himself rather than that of the nation depended upon the success of his projects for restoring the supremacy of the Church.
The other was Pol Saulieu who sold or tasted coffee for a living but who spent most of his time knight-erring and writing incomprehensible poetry. Before Racicot had taken to composing songs without words,—esoteric songs that a few venturesome concert artists had hummed in public to the vast discomfiture of the musical world,—Saulieu had collaborated with him on a number of lyrics about faded roses and langorous ecstasies. Pol was hirstite and oily; his fingers resembled the necks of gigantic clams; his waistcoat was never too well buttoned; and he had loud convictions about God,—had even located the habitat of Deity. As nearly as Grover could grasp, God dwelt in the small of one's back, and expressed Himself in the form of reflex actions.
Casimir had the satisfaction of pouring strong drink for this pair, and Grover took his leave as four glasses of the horrid pink syrup were being set before the polite and abstemious Racicots.
