The table was of the usual European style -- cushions dead and twice as high as the balls; the cues in bad repair.
The natives play only a sort of pool on them.

We have never seen any body playing the French three-ball game yet, and I doubt if there is any such game known in France, or that there lives any man mad enough to try to play it on one of these European tables.

We had to stop playing finally because Dan got to sleeping fifteen minutes between the counts and paying no attention to his marking.
Afterward we walked up and down one of the most popular streets for some time, enjoying other people's comfort and wishing we could export some of it to our restless, driving, vitality-consuming marts at home.

Just in this one matter lies the main charm of life in Europe--comfort.

In America, we hurry--which is well; but when the day's work is done, we go on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep.