THE HOTEL
The long resounding marble corridors, the shining parlors with shining women in them.
The French room, with its gilt and garlands under plump little tumbling painted Loves.
The Turkish room, with its jumble of many carpets and its stiffly squared un-Turkish chairs.
The English room, all heavy crimson and gold, with spreading palms lifted high in round green tubs.
The electric lights in twos and threes and hundreds, made into festoons and spirals and arabesques, a maze and magic of bright persistent radiance.
The people sitting in corners by twos and threes, and cooing together under the glare.
The long rows of silent people in chairs, watching with eyes that see not while the patient band tangles the air with music.
The bell-boys marching in with cards, and shouting names over and over into ears that do not heed.
The stout and gorgeous dowagers in lacy white and lilac, bedizened with many jewels, with smart little scarlet or azure hats on their gray-streaked hair.