nimble chamois were leaping over these rocks and Warble heard a fairy-like
chime of bells as afternoon tea was announced.

A man in an artist's smock sauntered across the street. A palette on one
thumb, he scratched his chin with the other. A hearse, its long box filled
with somebody, crawled down the block. A dainty Sedan with a woman's
idle face at its window wafted by. From a Greek Temple came the sound of
Interpretative Dancing, and the applause of perfunctory hands.

She wanted to elope. Her own ideas of utility, efficiency, and economy were
being shattered--broken in pieces like a potter's vessel. Her sense of
proportion, her instinct for relative values, her abhorrence of waste
motion, her inborn system and method, all were swept away as a thief in
the night. Could she reform this giddy whirl? Could she bring chaos out of
cosmos? Was her own ego sufficient to egg her on in her chosen work?

She haed her doots.

She maundered down the street on one side--back on the other.

Dudie's Drug-store was like unto a Turkish Mosque. Minaret and pinnaret,
battlement and shuttle-door, it was a perfect drug-store, nobly planned.
The long flight of steps leading up to its ptortal was a masterpiece in the
step line.

Inside, the Soda Pagoda was a joy of temple bells and soft, sweet drinks,
while at the prescription counter, the line formed on the right, to get Dr.
Petticoat's prescriptions filled for their ptomaines.

A Moldavian Incense Shop was the barber's; a half-timbered house sold