He does not object to alcohol, you know. Whisky has not come out of a
warm-blooded beast. But it's going into one. A kind of Asiatic
Socrates, don't you think?"
"A Buddha," suggested the Count. "A Buddha in second-rate alabaster. A
Chinese Buddha of a bad, realistic period."
"It's odd," remarked Mr. Heard. "He reminds me of a dead fish.
Something ancient and fishlike--it's that mouth--"
"He's a beauty!" interrupted Edgar Marten, sniffing with disgust. "Eyes
like a boiled haddock. And that thing has the cheek to call itself a
Messiah. Thank God I'm a Jew; it's not business of mine. But if I were
a Christian, I'd bash his blooming head in. Damned if I wouldn't. The
frowsy, fetid, flow-blown fraud. Or what's the matter with the Dog's
Home?"
"Come, come," said Mr. Heard, who had taken rather a liking to this
violent youngster and was feeling more than usually indulgent that
evening. "Come! He can't help his face, I fancy. Have you no room in
your heart for an original? And don't you think--quite apart from
questions of religion--that we tourists ought to be grateful to these
people for diversifying the landscape with their picturesque red
blouses and things?"
"I have no eye for landscape, Mr.
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