It is an entertainment never failing in interest to the observer, and not the least amusing question that one asks oneself is, Where does every one sleep?
I shall always remember one band night here, for it was then that I saw a girl and her father whose images will never leave me, I know not why.
Every now and then, but seldom indeed, a strange face or form will thus suddenly photograph itself on the memory, when it is only with the utmost concentrated effort, or not at all, that we can call up mental pictures of those near and dear to us.

I know nothing of these two; I saw them only once again, and then in just the same fugitive way; but if an artist were now to show me a portrait of either, I could point out where his hand was at fault.

The band was playing the usual music--_Il Trovatore_ or _Aida_ or _Lohengrin_--and the crowd was circulating when an elderly man with a long-pointed grey beard and moustache and the peculiar cast of countenance belonging to them (Don Quixotic) walked past.

He wore a straw hat slightly tilted and was smoking a cigar.

His arm was passed through that of a tall slender girl of about his own height, and, say, twenty-five, in red.