For a "soulless corporation" the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company has shown a good deal of imagination in constructing and equipping its Chinatown exchange. The building with its gaily decorated pagoda roof and balconies, makes a colorful spot in the center of Chinatown. Inside it is elaborately frescoed with dragons and other Chinese designs, while the woodwork is of ebony and gold. The switchboard is carved and is set in a shrine, and this fascinating incongruity, with the operators, all dressed in the richly colored silk costumes of their ancient civilization, poking in plugs, pulling them out, chattering now in English, now in Chinese, teaches one that anachronism may, under some conditions, be altogether charming. * * * * * One rumor concerning San Francisco restaurants appealed to my sinful literary imaginings. I had heard that these establishments resembled those of Paris, not only in cuisine, but because, as in Paris, the proprietors did not deem it necessary to stipulate that private diningrooms should never be occupied save by parties of more than two. Of one of these restaurants, in particular, I had been told the most amazing tales: A taxi would drive into the building by a sort of tunnel; great doors would close instantly behind it; it would run onto a large elevator and be taken bodily to some floor above, where the occupants would alight practically at the door of their clandestine meeting-place--an exquisite little apartment, decorated like the boudoir of some royal favorite. If it were indeed true that such a picturesquely shocking place existed, I intended--entirely in the interest of my readers, you will understand--to see it; and honesty forces me to add that I hoped, with journalistic immorality, that it did exist. One night I went there. True, the conditions were somewhat prosaic. It was quite late; my companion and I were tired, but we were near the end of our stay in San Francisco, and I insisted upon his accompanying me to the mysterious café, although he protested violently--not on moral grounds, but because he is sufficiently sophisticated to know that there is no subject upon which exaggeration gives itself _carte blanche_ as it does when describing gilded vice. The taxi did drive in through a kind of tunnel--a place suggesting coal wagons--but there were no massive, silent doors to close behind it. Passing into an inner court, which was like an empty garage, it stopped beside a little door. "Where is the elevator?" I asked the taxi driver. "In there," he answered, indicating the door. "But," I complained, "I heard that there was a big elevator here, that took taxis right up stairs." "There ain't," he said, succinctly. Telling him to wait, we entered the door and came upon an elevator and a solitary waiter, whom we informed of our desire to see the place. Obligingly he took us to an upper floor and opening the door of an apartment, showed us in.