Malt.
We stood and realised Paris on the pavement while the fiacre turned in
from the road and drew up for us. I had every intention of being
fascinated and so had momma. We had both heard often and often that good
Americans when they die go to Paris, and that prepares one for a good
deal in this life. We were so anxious to be pleased that we fastened
with one accord upon the florist's shop under the hotel and said that it
was uniquely charming, though we both knew places in Broadway that it
couldn't be compared with. We looked amiably at the passers-by, and did
our best to detect in the manner of their faces that _esprit_ that makes
the dialogue of French novels so stimulating. What I usually thought I
saw when they looked at us was a leisurely indifferentism ornamented
with the suspicion of a sneer, and based upon a certain fundamental
acquisitiveness and ability to make a valuation that acknowledged the
desirability of our presence on business grounds, if not on personal
ones. It seemed to be a preconcerted public intention to make as much
noise in a given space as possible--we spoke of the cheerfulness of it,
stopping our ears.
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