Exquisite in the modernness of its appointments, it possesses an atmosphere of historic France, and the combination comes perilously near perfection. The urbane proprietor, who looked like the hero of a French play, personally conducted me to my rooms and was solicitous for my welfare in the best of English. From my windows I could see al fresco diners in a garden which looked like Marie Antoinette’s idea of Luna Park.
The urbane proprietor . . . personally conducted me to my rooms.
Noble old trees rose as high as the house, and from their branches hung great globes of vari-colored electric light. Statues guarded a fountain at one end, flower-beds surrounded the place, and at many tables gay humanity was toying with chef d’œuvres of French cooking.
The scene allured me. I hastily donned a dinner gown, and descended to take my seat at an attractively-placed table.
As I was alone, this might in New York have seemed indiscreet; in London, at least undiscreet; but in Paris, being a guest of the house, and under the protection of the august and benignant proprietor, it all seemed the most natural proceeding in the world.
The dinner was a dream; I mean, a sort of comic opera dream, where lights and flowers and gayety made a chimerical effect of happiness.
Of course, this pause over night at the hotel was part of my journey to the week-end party.
The next day my hostess would send for me, but these vicissitudes of travel were not at all unpleasant.
As I finished my dinner, and sauntered through the delicately ornate salons, callers’ cards were brought me, and I was delighted to welcome some English friends who were passing through Paris on a motor tour.