which serves as a vast forecourt to the strange old basilica
of Saint Mark. I sat in front of Florian's cafe, eating ices,
listening to music, talking with acquaintances: the traveler
will remember how the immense cluster of tables and little chairs
stretches like a promontory into the smooth lake of the Piazza.
The whole place, of a summer's evening, under the stars and with
all the lamps, all the voices and light footsteps on marble
(the only sounds of the arcades that enclose it), is like an open-air
saloon dedicated to cooling drinks and to a still finer degustation--
that of the exquisite impressions received during the day.
When I did not prefer to keep mine to myself there was always
a stray tourist, disencumbered of his Baedeker, to discuss them with,
or some domesticated painter rejoicing in the return of the season
of strong effects. The wonderful church, with its low domes and
bristling embroideries, the mystery of its mosaic and sculpture,
looking ghostly in the tempered gloom, and the sea breeze passed
between the twin columns of the Piazzetta, the lintels of a door no
longer guarded, as gently as if a rich curtain were swaying there.
I used sometimes on these occasions to think of the Misses Bordereau
and of the pity of their being shut up in apartments which in the Venetian
July even Venetian vastness did not prevent from being stuffy.
Their life seemed miles away from the life of the Piazza, and no doubt
it was really too late to make the austere Juliana change her habits.
But poor Miss Tita would have enjoyed one of Florian's ices, I was sure;
sometimes I even had thoughts of carrying one home to her.
Fortunately my patience bore fruit, and I was not obliged to do
anything so ridiculous.

One evening about the middle of July I came in earlier than usual--
I forget what chance had led to this--and instead of going up to my