l be able to see you.

You won't object to hearing a man rave a little, Covington? If you do,
you can tear up this right here. But I know I can't say anything good
about Marjory that you won't agree with. Maybe, however, you'd call my
present condition abnormal. Perhaps it is; but I wonder if it is n't
part of every normal man's life to be abnormal to this extent at least
once--to see, for once, this staid old world through the eyes of a
prince of the ancient city of Bagdad; to thrill with the magic and
gorgeous beauty of it? It shows what might always be, if one were poet
enough to sustain the mood.

Here am I, a plugging lawyer of the Borough of Manhattan, City of New
York, State of New York--which is just about as far away from the city
of Bagdad as you can get. I'm concerned mainly with certain details of
corporation law--the structure of soulless business institutions which
were never heard of in Bagdad. My daily path takes me from certain
uptown bachelor quarters through the subway to a certain niche in a
downtown cave dwelling. Then--presto, she comes. I pass over all that
intervened, because it is no longer important, but--presto again, I
find myself here a prince in some royal castle of Bagdad, counting the
moments until another day breaks and I can feel the touch of my
princess's hand. Even my dull eyes count for me, because so I can
fancy myself, if I choose, in some royal apartment, surrounded by
hanging curtains of silk, priceless marbles, and ornaments of gold and
silver, with many silent eunuchs awaiting my commands. From my windows
I'm at liberty to imagine towers and minarets and domes of copper.

Always she, my princess, is somewhere in the background, when she is
not actually by my side. When I saw her before, Covington, I marveled
at her eyes--those deep, wonderful eyes that told you so little and
made you dream so much. I saw her hair too, and her straight nose, and
her beautiful lips. Those things I see now as I saw them then. I must
wait a little while really to see them again. In their place, however,
I have now her voice and the sound of her footsteps. To hear her
coming, just to hear the light fall of her feet upon the ground, is
like music.

But when she speaks, Covington, then all other sounds cease, and she
speaks alone to me in a world grown silent to listen. There is some
quality in that voice that gets into me--that reaches and vibrates
certain hidden strings I did n