It grew very neatly inside, doubtless with a certain _chic_, but it had a look of being put on for the occasion that was essentially Parisian.
Also the trees grew up out of iron plates, which was uncomfortable, though, no doubt, highly finished, and the flowers had a _cachet_ about them which made one think of French bonnets.

As we rolled into the Bois it became evident that the guide had something special to communicate.
He raised his voice and coughed, in a manner which commanded instant attention.
"Ladies--and genelmen," he said--he always added the gentleman as if they were an after-thought--"you are mos' fortunate, mos' locky.

_Tout Paris_--all the folks--are still driving their 'orse an' carriage 'ere.
One week more--the style will be all gone--what you say--vamoosed?
Every mother's son! An' Cook's excursion party won't see nothin' but ole cabs goin' along!" "Can't we get away from them ?" asked the serious person.

It was humorously intended--certainly a liberty, and the guide was down on it in an instant.
"Get away from them?
Not if they know you're here!" At which the serious man looked still more serious, and sympathy for him sprang up in every heart.
We passed Longchamps at a steady trot, and the guide's statement that the races there were always held on Sunday was received with a silence that evidently disappointed him.

It was plain that he had a withering rejoinder ready for sabbatarians, and he waited anxiously, balanced on one foot, for an expression of shocked opinion.