Tinkling mandolines from restaurant gardens, light laughter, and shifting lights.
Passing before the Café de Cuna, and a people’s “Dancing,” he roamed leisurely along. Incipient Cyprians, led by vigilant, blanched-faced queens, youths of a certain life, known as bwam-wam bwam-wams, gaunt pariah dogs with questing eyes, all equally were on the prowl. Beneath the Pharaohic pilasters of the Theatre Maxine Bush, a street crowd had formed before a notice described “Important,” which informed the Public that, owing to a “temporary hoarseness,” the rôle of Miss Maxine Bush would be taken, on that occasion, by Miss Pauline Collier.
The Marcella Gardens lay towards the end of the Avenue, in the animated vicinity of the Opera. Pursuing the glittering thoroughfare, it was interesting to observe the pleasure announcements of the various theatres, picked out in signs of fire: Aïda: The Jewels of the Madonna: Clara Novotny and Lily Lima’s Season.
Vending bags of roasted peanuts, or sapadillos and avocado pears, insistent small boys were importuning the throng.
“Go away; I can’t be bodder,” Charlie was saying, when he seemed to slip; it was as though the pavement were a carpet snatched from under him, and looking round, he was surprised to see, in a Confectioner’s window, a couple of marble-topped tables start merrily waltzing together.
Driven onward by those behind, he began stumblingly to run towards the Park. It was the general goal. Footing it a little ahead, two loose women and a gay young man (pursued by a waiter with a napkin and a bill), together with the horrified, half-crazed crowd; all, helter-skelter, were intent upon the Park.
Above the Calabash-trees, bronze, demoniac, the moon gleamed sourly from a starless sky, and although not a breath of air was stirring, the crests of the loftiest palms were set arustling by the vibration at their roots.
“Oh, will nobody stop it?” a terror-struck lady implored.
Feeling quite white and clasping a fetish, Charlie sank all panting to the ground.
Safe from falling chimney-pots and signboards, that, for “Pure Vaseline,” for instance, had all but caught him, he had much to be thankful for.