wear two petticoats and Hanan shoes and Knox hats and who carry suit
cases covered with foreign express tags, and whom porters run to meet
because they know that these women may not be so stylish as they are
generous tippers. And the Palace suggests to me afternoon teas, and that
peculiar composite chatter of women's voices which is more like the
sound of birds in a flock, and which Powys speaks of as a strange
inarticulate chitter chatter which isn't really speech at all.

The other day a well groomed young official from the hotel took me out
to see the famous old Palace bar and the beautiful Maxfield Parrish
painting above it. They have taken the rail away, and around the edge of
the bar they have built a nicely finished woodwork wall which looks
exactly like a great coffin, the coffin of John Barleycorn. After the
manner of my species I wanted to see over the edge and the young man,
thinking that I might be suspecting a blind pig, boosted me up to peck
over. I asked him why they didn't remove the bar entirely and he said
with unsmiling naivete that they were waiting "to see" and that they had
saved the rail, "in case."

If I were a reformer I should agitate and have that remarkably joyous
and beautiful Parrish painting placed where it could be seen. I'd take
it out to some San Francisco school so that the dear Pied Piper and all
the little round kiddies running after should be a delight to school
children.

And now I have come to the end and all that I have said is that the
Palace Hotel is the San Francisco tradition and everyone in the United
States knew that long ago.