“Children walk in them with their nurses. Circumspect lovers whisper in them. Elderly gentlemen sit in them, reading the Figaro or Le Petit St Rocqueois. Their whole aspect lulls the observer to a stodgy calm: and, hearing their name, you cannot help feeling that St Rocque must be easily amused. To-night, all was changed. Tables and waiters and bottles had broken out on every side like a rash. A silver band – and for sheer licentiousness you can't beat a silver band – was playing on the little p...latform in the centre, and round this platform, in many cases far too closely linked, pirouetted the merrymaking citizenry of St Rocque. The Festival of the Saint was in full swing. So, also, were Mr Soup Slattery and the Vicomte de Blissac. The former, in intimate communion with a chance-met lady friend, was tearing off a few of those fancy steps which had made his name a byword at bootleggers' social evenings in Cicero. The latter, who preferred to be untrammelled by a partner, was performing some intricate gyrations by himself in the very middle of the fairway, a source of no small inconvenience to one and all.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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