They were no longer
parts of my own observation, to be remembered or forgotten as chance
determined, they belonged to some one else, to the blind man in whose
service I was pledged to a vicarious absorption of "material."
I found myself counting the black spots on a fish's back, the steps
leading up to Monaco on its hill, the number of men and women in the
Grand Salon at Monte Carlo, of men with mustaches, of clean-shaven men,
of men with beards in the restaurants, of vessels in sight from the
terrace, of everything, in fact, which seemed capable of furnishing a
sentence or of starting up a discussion.
Once or twice I ran over late at night to Monte Carlo, and occasionally
Thwaites and I met after ten o'clock at the Casino of Mentone to play
bowls or try our luck at the tables; but the spirit of J. P. never
failed to attend upon these dismal efforts at amusement. If I heard an
epigram, witnessed an interesting incident, or observed any curious
sight, out came my note book and pencil and the matter was dedicated to
the service of the morrow's duties.
Finally, after several false starts, we all found ourselves on the yacht
with the prospect of spending most of our time aboard until Mr. Pulitzer
sailed for his annual visit to America.
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