Diary of a Drug Fiend

30 The Diary of a Drug Fiend accord she writhed into my arms; her hands and mouth were heavy on my heart. There’s some more poetry—that’s the way it takes one—rhythm seems to come natural—everything is one grand harmony. It is impossible that anything should be out of tune. The voice of Lou seemed to come from an enormous distance, a deep, low, sombre chant :— “© Thou low moan of fainting maids, that art caught up in the strong sobs of Love! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, I A O!” | That was it—her engine and my engine for the first time working together! All the accidents had disappeared. There was nothing but the unison of two rich racing rhythms. You know how it is when you are flying—vyou see a speck in the air. You can’t tell by your eyes if it is your Brother Boche coming to pot you, or one of our own or one of the allied ‘planes. But you can tell them apart, foe from friend, by the different beat of their engines. So one comes to apprehend a particular rhythm as sympathetic—another as hostile. - So here were Lou and I flying together beyond the bounds of eternity, side by side; her low, persistent throb in perfect second to my great galloping boom. Things of this sort take place outside time and space. It is quite wrong to say that what happened in the taxi ever began or ended. What happened was that our attention was distracted from the eternal truth of this essential marriage of our souls by the chauffeur, who had stopped the taxi and opened the door. “ Here we are, sir,” he said, with a grin. Sir Peter Pendragon and Lou Laleham automatically reappeared. Before all things, decorum ! The shock bit the incident deeply into my mind: I remember with the utmost distinctness paying the man off, and then being lost in absolute blank wonder as to how it happened that we were where we were.