Throughout the large room (we are upstairs, gentle
reader) the tables are filling rapidly with well-dressed men
and women. Nothing in their appearance, generally, to
challenge remark; a conventional crowd of male and female
New Yorkers, intent on a good dinner and subsidiary enjoy-
ments. For the first time, perhaps, I notice how pleasant
it is to observe everything at leisure, without having to talk
to any one — you really can not see things in a detached,



158 PALMS OF PAPYRUS

philosophic manner when you have to jabber to a pretty
woman.
A clerical-looking gentleman with a severe forehead, is
one of my near neighbors. His companion is a handsome
young woman, rather highly colored, who seems more at
home than the forehead. A couple take the table next to
mine; the young fellow is well-looking enough, the girl has
the short, colorless, indeterminate, American face, with its
pert resolve to be pretty; both are young and have eyes only
for each other — that's the point. They sit down to the
table as if preparing for the event of their lives ; this eager
young expectancy is smilingly noted by others than myself.
A large man convoying three heavy matronly women who
yet do not look like mothers — you know that familiar New
York type — takes a favorable station against the wall where
there is much room for eating and whence the outlook is com-
manding. The large one perjures himself fearfully in ex-
plaining how he had it specially reserved. I know him for a
genial liar, and maybe the ladies do, too. These four have
evidently come to eat and drink their fill, and to look on :
Schopenhauer is no> concern of theirs, nor they of his.
