Francis. Such a
pageant of individual stories. An exquisitely dressed young girl meets
another there, and soon two young chaps appear and they all begin
talking silly nothings, and laughing at each other's silly jokes, and
looking into each other's foolish young eyes much as lovers have always
done. A harassed business man rushes frantically to the telegraph desk
and wires his firm at Pittsburgh. Some staid, comfortably-fixed tourists
from Newton Center, Massachusetts, come in from sight-seeing and go up
to their rooms and quickly get their shoes off. A group of Elks come in,
arm-linked, and start one wondering about the enforcement of the dry
law. In and out among all these moving comedies and tragedies flits like
an orange-colored butterfly a little Oriental boy, an angel-faced page
goes calling "Mister Smith," and sober looking bell-hops stand alert to
the sound of "Front."
A beautiful woman steps forward and meets a handsome man and they go to
dinner together, and somehow I don't think he is her husband and wonder
if she is a widow and decide that it is none of my business. If she has
a husband he is probably an "ornery" fellow who never takes her
anywhere.
Everyone who passes by me looks alert, and sure, and happy and
prosperous, but I comfort myself that probably each one of them has as
much to worry about as I myself do.
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