and of a type almost as
extinct in Paris as the three-horse omnibus. It was the only cab in
sight and we packed into and outside of it, not two but eight. As it
crawled down one of the steep streets from _Montmartre_ there was a
creak, the horse stopped and, as quickly as I tell it, the bottom was
out of the cab and we were in the street. Harland, as if prepared all
along for just such a disaster, whisked the top hat so conspicuous in
everything we did from the astonished Architect's head, handed it round,
made a pitiful tale of _le pauvr' cocher_ and his hungry wife and
children, and implored us to show, now or never, the charitable stuff we
were made of. Considering it was the end of a long evening, he collected
a fairly decent number of francs and presented them to the _cocher_ with
an eloquent speech, which it was a pity someone could not have taken
down in shorthand for him to use in his next story. The _cocher_, the
least concerned of the group, thanked us with a broad grin, drew up his
broken cab close to the sidewalk, took the horse from the shaft,
clambered on its back, rode as fast as he could go down the street, and
disappeared into the night. A _sergent-de-ville_, who had been looking
on, shrugged his shoulders; in his opinion, _cet animal la_ was in luck
and probably would like nothing better than the same accident every
night, provided at the time he was driving ladies and gentlemen of such
generosity. _Allez!_ Didn't we know the cab was heavily insured, all
Paris cabs were, we had made him a handsome present--_Voila tout!_

And so wonderful is it to be young and in Paris that we laughed our way
back as we trudged on foot through the now dark and empty and silent
streets between _Montmartre_ and our rooms. I doubt if I could laugh now
at the fatigue of it. Of all the many ghosts that walk with me along the
old familiar ways, the one keeping most obstinately at my side is that
of my own youth, reminding me of the prosaic, elderly woman I am, who,
even if the zest for adventure remained, would be ashamed to be caught
plunging into follies like those of the old foolish nights in Paris that
never can be again, or who, if not ashamed, would be without the energy
to see them through to the end.

VII

In Paris, as in London, a further ramble down those crowded, haunted,
resounding Corridors of Time would lead me to many other nights of
gaiety and friendliness and loud persistent talk.

Again, I would have