n a more expensive theatre, we found _The Kid_.
We had come out to see a much trumpeted film of a bullfight--Mead for
one set of reasons, I for another; but it was of yesterday, and we had
no difficulty in consoling ourselves. One Chaplin, we acknowledged, was
better than many toreadors.

And then, we had a glimpse of the Carnival. In our wonted quarter of
the town, that where the seafaring man mostly rested, it took the form
of some processions of hobbledehoys and urchins, beating as their kind
do on drums and things like drums. The next evening we took the same
dreary cobblestone walk as usual, but did not limit ourselves to that.
We took a tram, indeed, to more fashionable haunts and at last came into
the great Avenida and all its garish illuminations; its paper ribbons
were as multi-coloured as the lights, and, flung from the upper storeys of
the hotels, in some places they were thick enough to form a fantastic
and absurd cascade. Here the Carnival was in mid sprout. We got what we
came for--a diversion.

The pavements, broader here than in the generality of the streets we
knew, were chock-a-block with folks, the cafes overflowing, the towering
hotels gleaming with bright dresses on every balcony, and all this was
the accompaniment of the gorgeous procession that moved slowly along the
highway. Its vehicles of every kind, but their kind hidden from passing
observation by their curtains and festoons of flowers, trooped along
in the unreal glare. Here, ladies of most aristocratic air came by,
with the blackest of masks above the whitest of countenances; there was
a girl in the dress of a bull-fighter, driving her own light carriage;
next, a set of laughing "gipsies" apparently advertising a brand of
cigarettes; then, a collection of men with Cyrano disguises and attempting
Cyrano humour to the gods--

All these and more came flocking.

But the privilege of gazing unrebuked upon the profusion of beauty, upon
raven hair and great deep-burning eyes, upon the pale cheeks of wintry
moons, the privilege of hearing the disjointed music of the fu-fu bands
and the verbal crackers of harlequins of the moment, was not without its
points of misery. The pavements represented a scrum on the largest
scale, in the forefront of one battering ram whereof Mead and myself were
securely wedged in for an hour or two. In this state of things, the usual
individual turned round to ask Mead "who he was pushing?"--the sense
of his remar