THE REFORMATION OF CALLIOPECalliope Catesby was in his humours again. Ennui was upon him.
This goodly promontory, the earth—particularly that portion of it
known as Quicksand—was to him no more than a pestilent congregation
of vapours. Overtaken by the megrims, the philosopher may seek
relief in soliloquy; my lady find solace in tears; the flaccid
Easterner scold at the millinery bills of his women folk. Such
recourse was insufficient to the denizens of Quicksand. Calliope,
especially, was wont to express his ennui according to his
lights.
Over night Calliope had hung out signals of approaching low
spirits. He had kicked his own dog on the porch of the Occidental
Hotel, and refused to apologise. He had become capricious and
fault-finding in conversation. While strolling about h
