the colleen, she asks? And me a true son of the Old Sod? Faith! Hear this: When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Vanity was taken aback. 'That's a beautiful poem.' 'To be sure, and it is!' declared Colin, lifting his wineglass again to his lips with relish. 'I don't know what the first two stanzas are on about, but I've always wanted a crown of stars like the one Love hides his face in on the mountain. I assume he meant Cupid atop Olympos. Wonder how he knew Cupid was crowned King after Terminus fell? Quentin, can you summon up his ghost to ask him?'
Quentin nodded, and mentioned some of the disgusting things he'd have to get or to do to perform the necromancy. Victor said, 'The poem said 'crowd,' not 'crown.'' Colin shrugged. 'Miss Daw told me once that you can interpret a poem how you like, so I interpret that Yeats's pen slipped when he wrote that last line. I'm sure he meant to say 'crown.'' I said, 'And what do you think of America?' Colin nodded at me. 'I am suspicious of anything you like, Amelia, just on principle; but on the other hand, everyone says California girls are hot, young, wet, and eager, so the place cannot be all bad.'
Vanity commented: 'Ah! The echoes from the shallow well! Colin, I would call you a boor, except I know some boors who are quite nicer than you. She was asking what you thought of their system of government.'
Colin spread his hands. 'What? I've walked into a bank and ate in a restaurant. I haven't seen a race riot or a public hanging since I've been here, so I guess their system of government is holding up for this afternoon. What kind of question is that, anyway? That's all theory. Democracy or tyranny or communism or capitalism. It's all something someone made up in his head. It's not real.
The reality is that people will do whatever they want to do, and make up some excuse later why they did. Political economics is a list of excuses to use.'
I said, 'Well, God bless America, I say. These people are the freest on Earth.'
Colin picked up his fork and jabbed it in my direction. 'Which means they are the freest pigs in the sty. And the Olympians are the swineherds. It does not matter what these people do or do not do. The bloody gods and goddesses are running the show here. The freedom you see around you is a facade, a false face. If you care about freedom for Americans or Englishmen or Irishmen (the finest race on Earth, let me just say), then you have to declare war against Heaven and Hell, against wind and wave and fire, and every other place the old gods dwell.'
Victor said calmly, 'I do not disagree with what you say, Colin, but let us see to securing our own freedom first.'
We all toasted that remark.
It was based on that conversation that I started to wonder-if the human world were a false face, what lay under the mask?
Why were the gods in hiding, if men were their cattle?
My cash was still trapped in my fourth-dimensional pocket, but I had no chance to go to the ladies' room and rotate it into being. Colin, with grand and solemn drama, swept up the bill when the waiter brought it, and he left a healthy tip, bankrupting himself for a gesture.
'Now you have to put out,' he said to me with his crooked smile. 'It's tradition.'
Insults bubbled up to my lips (a natural process brought on by exposure to Colin). Victor spoke before I did, though, saying in the cool, remote voice, 'I believe the American tradition, in cases where the gentleman propositions a lady after paying for her meal with money she secured for him, is to take him out back and drub him. Quentin, would you care to join me?'
To my surprise, little Quentin did step up to Colin and grab him by one arm, while Victor grabbed the other.
'Hey!' shouted Colin. Heads turned at the shout. Patrons of the restaurant murmured in alarm.
I said, 'The Dark Mistress is amused by the circus of gladiators, but this is not the place! If you boys can peer through the cloud of manly testosterone you're emitting, note the approach of the maitre d'hotel! Don't do anything that will make them call the police!'
Victor nodded at Quentin, and in a trice, they had Colin hoisted up to their shoulders (lopsidedly, since Victor is taller than Quentin) and were singing, 'He's a jolly good fellow! So say all of us!'
The patrons, relieved, smiled and turned back to their meals. One or two even clapped.
The maitre d' approached anyway. 'What is the meaning of this?'
I said, 'Well... we're British.'
He blinked, but the answer seemed to satisfy him. Victor and Quentin staggered out under their load, who waved and smiled at the other patrons, especially the ladies. Once outside in the parking lot, away from other eyes, the two unceremoniously dumped him to the pavement.
'Ow!' Colin stood and tried to rub both his bum and his head at the same time, which
