The business men in trim and spotless suits, who walk in and out with eager steps, or sit at the desks and tables, or watch the shining women.
The telephone girls forever listening to far voices, with the silver band over their hair and the little black caps obliterating their ears.
The telegraph tickers sounding their perpetual chit—chit-chit from the uttermost ends of the earth.
The waiters, in black swallow-tails and white aprons, passing here and there with trays of bottles and glasses.
The quiet and sumptuous bar-room, with purplish men softly drinking in little alcoves, while the barkeeper, mixing bright liquors, is rapidly plying his bottles.
The great bedecked and gilded café, with its glitter of a thousand mirrors, with its little white tables bearing gluttonous dishes whereto bright forks, held by pampered hands, flicker daintily back and forth.
The white-tiled, immaculate kitchen, with many little round blue fires, where white-clad cooks are making spiced and flavored dishes.
The cool cellars filled with meats and fruits, or layered with sealed and bottled wines mellowing softly in the darkness.
The invisible stories of furnaces and machines, burrowing deep into the earth, where grimy workmen are heavily laboring.
The many-windowed stories of little homes and shelters and sleeping-places, reaching up into the night like some miraculous, high-piled honey-comb of wax-white cells.