The walls were decorated with beer- and wine-signs in frames, and on either side of the huge mirror hung lithographic portraits of Humberto and the Queen of Italy. Opposite, a row of windows looking on the street was hung with half-curtains of a harsh, disagreeable blue; over them peeped, now and again, wayfarers or others who had dined too well, rapping on the glass and gesticulating to those inside. All about the sides of the room and upon every column, hats, coats and cloaks were hung, making the place seem like an old-clothes shop. The floor was covered with sawdust and the tables were huddled closely together. For the most part the diners were all young—mechanics, clerks, factory girls and the like though here and there, watching the sport, were up-town parties, reveling in an unconventional air. The groups, now well on in their dinner, had begun to fraternize. Here a young man raised his wine-glass to a pretty girl across the room and the two drank together, smiling, or calling out some easy witticism. In one corner, a party of eight was singing jovially something about: "One day to him a letter there did come," and anon, encouraged by the applause and the freedom, a lad of nineteen, devoid of collar, closed his eyes, leaned back and sang a long song through in a vibrant, harsh voice. He was greeted with applause, hands clapped, feet pounded and knives clattered on bottles till the _patron_ hurried from table to table quelling the pandemonium. Waiters came and went in bustling fervor, dodging between one table and another, jostling and spilling soup; at intervals a great clanging bell rang and the apparition of a soiled white cook appeared at the kitchen door ordering the waiters to: "Take it away!" The kitchen was an arcade into which from time to time guests wandered, to joke with the cook and beat upon the huge immaculate copper kettles on the wall. The conversation at times became almost general, the party of songsters in the corner leading in the exchange of persiflage. Two girls dining alone, with hard, tired-looking eyes and cheap jewelry, began a duet; instantly, from a company of young men, two detached themselves, plates and glasses in hand, and went over to join them. A roar went up; glasses rang again and Dave fluttered about in protest at the noise. Fancy talked little. The crowd, the lights, the _camaraderie_ hypnotized her. She watched first one and then another group, picking out, for Gay’s edification, the prettiest girl and the handsomest man in the room. She waved her hand slyly at the collarless soloist and applauded two darkies who came in from outside to make a hideous clamor with banjos. As she waited to be served, she nibbled at the dry French bread and drank of the sour claret, watching over the top of her glass, losing nothing.