Heigh, old boy?
Do the pulsations of the music throb in your veins, too?
Come along and let us make a night of it.

To the Devil with sleep.

We'll go together down to the cellar and find a bottle of Pommery, and we will drink to Life and Youth and Love and the Splendour and the Joy thereof.
He utters a little cry of delight and frisks around me.

In the blackness of the cellar his one eye gleams like a star and he purrs unutterable rapture.

My hand passed over his back produces a shower of sparks.
We return up the silent stairs, I carry a bottle of Pommery and a milkjug--for you shall revel, too, Polyphemus; and as I have forgotten to bring a saucer, you shall drink, as no cat has drunk before, from an old precious platter bearing the arms of the Estes of Ferrara--over which Lucrezia Borgia laughed when the world was young.