seven o'clock
golden , sound and clear as topaz . Chablis , I hold , should be drank by some merry blonde whose heart is light ; Burgundy by a brunette in a temper . The small café on the ground floor is painted white , relieved by a frieze of gilded garlands and topped by a ceiling frescoed with rosy nymphs romping in a smoked turquoise sky . Between five and seven o'clock these midwinter afternoons the café is filled with its _ habitués _ -- distinguished old Frenchmen , who sip their absinthe leisurely enough to glance over the leading articles in the conservative _ Temps _ or the slightly gayer _ Figaro _ . Upstairs , by means of a spiral stairway , is a labyrinth of narrow , low-ceiled corridors leading to half a dozen stuffy little _ cabinets particuliers _ , about whose faded lambrequins and green velveted chairs there still lurks the scent of perfumes once in vogue with the gallants , beaux and belles of the Second Empire . Alice de Bréville , Tanrade , and myself , are dining to-night in one of these _ intime _ little rooms . The third to the left down the corridor .