re is only one entrance on the ground floor. Working out
the staircases and floor levels is a puzzle for an architect. We did not
even start to try to solve it. The Artist's interest was in the
"subject," and mine in the story the building told of an age when man's
individual needs influenced his life more strongly than they do now. We
think of the progress of civilization in the terms of combination,
organization, community interest, the centralized state. We have created
a machine to serve us, and have become servants of the machine. When we
thank God unctuously that we live not as our ancestors lived and as the
"uncivilized" live today, we are displaying the decay of our mental
faculties. Is it the Arab at his tent door, looking with dismay and
dread at the approach of the Bagdad Railway, who is the fool, or we?

Backed up at right angles to the stoop of the Cheval Blanc was a
grandfather omnibus, which certainly dated from the Second Empire. Its
sign read: GRASSE-ST. CEZAIRE. SERVICE DE LA POSTE. The canvas boot had
the curve of ocean waves. A pert little hood stuck out over the driver's
seat. The pair of lean horses--one black, the other white--stood with
noses turned towards the tramway rails. The Artist was still gazing
skylineward. I grasped his arm, and brought his eyes to earth. No word
was needed. He fumbled for his pencil. But to our horror the driver had
mounted, and was reaching for the reins. I got across the street just in
time to save the picture. Holding out cigars to the driver and a soldier
beside him on the box, I begged them to wait--please to wait--just five
minutes, five little minutes.

[Illustration: "A grandfather omnibus, which dated from the Second
Empire."]

"There is no place for another passenger. We are full inside," he
remonstrated.

But he had dropped the reins to strike a match. In the moment thus
gained, I got out a franc, and pressed it into his hand.

"Your coach, my friend," I said, "is unique in all France. The coffee of
that celebrated artist yonder sitting at the terrace of the Garden-Bar is
getting cold while he immortalizes the Grasse-St. Cezaire service. In
the interest of art and history, I beg of you to delay your departure ten
little minutes."

The soldier had found the cigar to his liking. "A quarter of an hour
will do no harm at all," he announced positively, getting down from his
place.

The driver puffed and growled. "We have our journ