le "Lotto Parlours" catch the eye, you
pass with the rolling crowd into the cabaret, the music-hall, the
theatre, the cafe, the restaurant, the book-shop--all Russian. You see
the establishments of Russian doctors, lawyers, dentists,
dancing-masters. In an improvised wooden hut you see a celebrated
portrait-painter sitting, ready to paint you whilst you wait or execute
commissions of any kind. The restaurants all have Russian names and
sometimes refer back to business left behind in Russia--the restaurant
"Birzha" from Rostof, "Kievsky Ugolok" from Kiev, "Veliky Moskovsky
Kruzhok," the "Yar," and the like. These are very tastefully arranged
and the cooking is excellent, being under the supervision of celebrated
Russian chefs. Thus at the "Kievsky Ugolok" it is well known that the
cook of Prince Vorontsof is in charge, and the restaurant does not
merely live by reputation but an excellence of cuisine testifies in
itself to some master-hand. The waitresses at most of these Russian
establishments are often women of society, and some of them very
beautiful in the simplicity of uniform. There is a fascinating added
pleasure in being waited upon by such gracious women, but the heart
aches for the fate of some of them. On each table is a ticket with the
name and patronymic of the waitress, thus, Tatiana Mihailovna, or
Sophia Vladimirovna. They are on a level with those they serve, and
the women embrace them, the men kiss their hands. Naturally there are
no such things as tips; service is charged for in the bill. Elegance
mingles with melancholy. Russians meet and talk endlessly, and sigh
for Russia, and the Russian music croons the night long from the
musicians' gallery or orchestra.

The saddest shops are those which, no doubt, belong mostly to Armenians
and Spanish Jews, where "valuables" are exposed, the miscellaneous
collections of the things the Russians have sold or wish to sell. Here
are rings, lockets, bracelets, fur-coats and wraps, gold vases,
trinket-cases, odd spoons of Caucasian silver, cigarette-holders,--like
so many locks of hair cut from diverse humanity. Here lie intimate
possessions, prized, not likely to be sold, seemingly quietly
reproachful under the public gaze, baptismal crosses, jewelled girdles,
gloves, Paris blouses, English costumes. The refugees must sell all
that they have, and some have sold all. I met the wife of a colonel of
Life Guards. She was dressed in a cotton skirt, a cre