The Equinox (Volume I, Number VII)

WAITE'S WET OR THE BACKSLIDER'S RETURN “ All [kings come to [uim who LVailex." ”I waitza' patiently (m lll: Lord; and He inclina/i unio me, and heard my cry.” IT was a brilliant May afternoon when the Prodigal re- turned. At the offices of the Equinox the usual constellation was assembled. Crowley lay lost in meditation upon the 15oo-guinea Persian rug, which he had received from the executors of the late John Brown; Neuburg, covered from head to foot with yellow paint and his own post-prandia! poetry, was yelling with laughter over a telegram which informed him that his favourite uncle had been disembowelled by a mad bull; Wieland, his head among the fire—irons, his soul among the stars, was trying to remember two important engagements which he had written down in his note—book five minutes earlier; Ethel Archer, talked to by Meredith Starr, but not listening to him, sat pale and classical on the edge of a table in default of a promontory, saying softly: “ Bysses— —aster—kisses—caster—blisses—faster—this is—master— misses —disaster — Pisces —poetaster*Cambyses—chaster; Madame Strindberg, still smarting under the description of herself as " relict or derelict " of somebody, having 233