What I usually thought I saw when they looked at us was a leisurely indifferentism ornamented with the suspicion of a sneer, and based upon a certain fundamental acquisitiveness and ability to make a valuation that acknowledged the desirability of our presence on business grounds, if not on personal ones.

It seemed to be a preconcerted public intention to make as much noise in a given space as possible--we spoke of the cheerfulness of it, stopping our ears.

The cracking of the drivers' whips alone made a _feu de joie_ that never ceased, and listening to it we knew that we ought to feel happy and elated.

The driver of our fiacre was fat and rubicund, he wore a green coat, brass buttons, and a shiny top hat, and looked as if he drank constantly.

His jollity was perfunctory, I know, and covered a grasping nature, but it was very well imitated, like everything in Paris.