THE AZURE COAST As Durkin and the young Chicagoan once more stepped out of the brilliantly lighted theatre, into the balmy night air, a seductive mingling of perfumes and music and murmuring voices blew in their hot faces, like a cooling wave.

Durkin was wondering, a little wearily, just when he could be alone again.
A group of gay and laughing women, with their aphrodisiac rustle of silk and flutter of lace, floated carelessly past.
"Who are _they_ ?" asked the youth.
Durkin half-envied him his illusions and his ingenuousness of outlook; he was treading a veritable amphitheatre of orderly disordered passions with the gentle objective stare of a child looking for bright-colored flowers on a battleground.

Durkin wondered if, after all, it was not the result of his mere quest of color, of his studying art in Paris for a year or two.
"I wonder who and what they are ?" impersonally reiterated the younger man, as his gaze still followed the passing group to where it drifted and scattered through the lamp-strewn garden, like a cluster of golden butterflies.
"Those are the slaves who sand the arena!" retorted Durkin, studying the softly waving palms, and leaving the other a little in doubt as to the meaning of his figure.
The younger man sighed; he was beginning to feel, doubtless, from what different standpoints they looked out on life.
"Oh, well, you can say what you like, but this is the centre of the world, to _my_ way of thinking!" "The centre of--putrescence!" ejaculated Durkin.

The younger man began to laugh, with conciliatory good-nature, as he glanced appreciatively back at the sweetmeat stateliness of the Casino front.

But into the older man's mind crept the impression that they were merely passing, in going from crowded theatre to open garden and street, from one playhouse to another.