The pale girls, the old widow lady, the three Jews lodging in the same boarding-house, the dandy, the major, the horse-dealer, and the gentleman of independent means, all wore the same blurred, drugged expression, and through the chinks in the planks at their feet they could see the green summer waves, peacefully, amiably, swaying round the iron pillars of the pier.
But there was a time when none of this had any existence (thought the young man leaning against the railings).

Fix your eyes upon the lady's skirt; the grey one will do--above the pink silk stockings.

It changes; drapes her ankles--the nineties; then it amplifies--the seventies; now it's burnished red and stretched above a crinoline--the sixties; a tiny black foot wearing a white cotton stocking peeps out.

Still sitting there?
Yes--she's still on the pier.

The silk now is sprigged with roses, but somehow one no longer sees so clearly.