surfaces of the mirrors, the gold of the rods 
and the cornices; the plump-cheeked pages 
dragged along by leashed dogs, the ladies 
laughing at the falcon perched upon their 
wrists, nymphs and goddesses carrying fruits, 
pastry and game on their heads, Hebes and 
Ganymedes offering with outstretched arms a 
little vase of soothing drinks, or the two-
coloured pyramid of mixed ices, all history and 
all mythology dragged into the service of glut-
tony. 
Directly before us on the pavement stood 
fixed a fine fellow of forty years old, with tired 
face and beard gone grey, holding by one hand 
a little boy, and carrying upon the other arm a 
little creature too weak to walk. He did a ser-
vant’s office and took his children to taste the 
evening air. All were in rags. These three faces 
were strangely serious, and these six eyes 
looked fixedly upon the new café with equal 
admiration, but coloured differently by age. 
The eyes of the father said: “How beautiful 
it is, how beautiful it is; one would say that all 
the gold of the poor world has come to plaster 
itself upon these walls.” The eyes of the little 
boy: “How beautiful it is, how beautiful it is; 
but it is a house where people like us cannot 
enter.” As to the eyes of the smallest, they