as not about the game. One said
something; the other shrieked his answer; the first shouted back; the
second in a violent burst that had a finality about it slammed down his
cards and said something curt, with a solemn rolling of his eyes.

To my amazement, the odd old fish across from me boomed out with equal
violence: "_Ben trovato_!" None of them paid any attention to him.

I may have shown some of my surprise at his action, for he turned
suddenly to me, and asked: "Did you understand what he said?"

I replied that I did not.

"He said, roughly translated: 'Sufficient unto eternity is the glory of
the hour.' Yes. And it is true. Sufficient unto eternity is the glory of
the hour, young man. There's many an artist who must--" he stopped short
and began biting his finger ends.

My mind reverted to Bernhardt's film and the question about the moth.
"Who must--what?" I prodded. "Content himself with this catch phrase?"

"Content himself? Damnation, no! Must feel the keener triumph in a piece
of work, young man, just because it _is_ perishable." He thumped the
table and breathed hard. I got the full paregoric reek of his drink.
"What is this stork-legged Verlaine going to say?" I thought to myself.
But he contented himself with breathing for a few moments and that odd
film dropped over his eyes. "Just because the thing is ended, and dies
out of men's minds almost as soon as it is ended"--he seemed to be
feeling slowly for the words--"_if_ the work was right, was masterly
done, there's a sort of higher joy in knowing that it triumphed--and was
suddenly gone--like a sunset, like a light on the water, like a summer."
He asked abruptly: "You think I have 'spiders on my ceiling'--you think
I am crazy?"

"On the contrary. Can you make this clearer to me, this--?"

"My agreement that sufficient unto eternity is the glory of the hour?"
He sipped his absinthe. "With your patience. Let me see. I can give you
a favorite example of mine, about a friend of mine named Andy
Gordon--something like a story?" Now in his eyes there was an eager
shine.

"Go on."

"You know, my friend, I am Highland Scotch." (He pronounced it Heeland.)
"I may be queer. That all depends. But don't be alarmed at the way I put
things. I am not out of my head. Now this yarn about Andy Gordon.
Remember," said he, tapping the table with his long white finger, and
smiling at me in a charming manner, "sufficient unto eternity is the
glory of the hour. By th