"I think I agree with Miss Gretna," she said lightly. "There is not so
much happiness in life that I want to forget the little I have had."
"Happiness," murmured Kilfane. "There is no real happiness. Happiness
is smoke. Let us smoke."
"I am curious, but half afraid," declared Rita. "I have heard that
opium sometimes has no other effect than to make one frightfully ill."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Miss Gretna, with a foolish giggling laugh, "you
will love it! Such fascinating dreams! Such delightful adventures!"
"Other drugs," drawled Sir Lucien, "merely stimulate one's normal
mental activities. Chandu is a key to another life. Cocaine, for
instance enhances our capacity for work. It is only a heretic like De
Quincey who prostitutes the magic gum to such base purposes. Chandu is
misunderstood in Europe; in Asia it is the companion of the aesthete's
leisure."
"But surely," said Rita, "one pipe of opium will not produce all these
wonders."
"Some people never experience them at all," interrupted Miss Gretna.
"The great idea is to get into a comfortable position, and just resign
yourself--let yourself go. Oh, it's heavenly!"
Cyrus Kilfane turned his dull eyes in Rita's direction.
"A question of temperament and adaptability," he murmured.
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