Here is more fancy and whim than ever before blessed a hot night.
Here, under the wind of an electric fan, they witness everything, from a burial in Westminster to the birthday parade of the ruler of the land of Swat.
The usual saloon equipment to delight the eye is one so-called "leg" picture of a woman, a photograph of a prize-fighter, and some colored portraits of goats to advertise various brands of beer.

Many times, no doubt, these boys and young men have found visions of a sordid kind while gazing on the actress, the fighter, or the goats.

But what poor material they had in the wardrobes of memory for the trimmings and habiliments of vision, to make this lady into Freya, this prize-fighter into Thor, these goats into the harnessed steeds that drew his chariot! Man's dreams are rearranged and glorified memories.

How could these people reconstruct the torn carpets and tin cans and waste-paper of their lives into mythology?
How could memories of Ladies' Entrance squalor be made into Castles in Granada or Carcassonne?
The things they drank to see, and saw but grotesquely, and paid for terribly, now roll before them with no after pain or punishment.

The mumbled conversation, the sociability for which they leaned over the tables, they have here in the same manner with far more to talk about.