My daughter Alida, my daughter Dulcima, and I spent our first day in Paris "ong voitoor" as the denizen of East Boston informed me later.
"What is your first impression, Alida?" I asked, as our taxi rolled smoothly down the Avenue de l'Opera.
"Paris? An enormous blossom carved out of stone!—a huge architectural Renaissance rose with white stone petals!"
I looked at my pretty daughter with pride.
"That is what Mr. Van Dieman says," she added conscientiously.
My enthusiasm cooled at once.
"Van Dieman exaggerates," I said. "Dulcima, what do you find to characterize Paris?"
"The gowns!" she cried. "Oh, papa! did you see that girl driving past just now?"
I opened my guidebook in silence. I had seen her.
The sunshine flooded everything; the scent of flowers filled the soft air; the city was a garden, sweet with green leaves, embroidered with green grass—a garden, too, in architecture, carved out in silvery gray foliage of stone. The streets are as smooth and clean as a steamer's deck, with little clear rivulets running in gutters that seem as inviting as country brooks. It did not resemble Manhattan.