Usually, from late September or earlier
until May or later, Paris has about the vilest climate that
curses a civilized city. It is one of the bitterest ironies
of fate that a people so passionately fond of the sun, of the
outdoors, should be doomed for two-thirds of the year to live
under leaden, icily leaking skies with rarely a ray of real
sunshine. And nothing so well illustrates the exuberant
vitality, the dauntless spirit of the French people, as the
way they have built in preparation for the enjoyment of every
bit of the light and warmth of any chance ray of sunshine.
That year it so fell that the winter rains did not close in
until late, and Paris reveled in a long autumn of almost New
York perfection. Susan and Palmer drove to the Ritz through
Paris, the lovely, the gay.
"This is the real thing--isn't it?" said he, thrilled into
speech by that spectacle so inspiring to all who have the joy
of life in their veins--the Place de l'Opera late on a bright
afternoon.
"It's the first thing I've ever seen that was equal to what I
had dreamed about it," replied she.
They had chosen the Ritz as their campaign headquarters
because they had learned that it was the most fashionable
hotel in Paris--which meant in the world. There were hotels
more grand, the interpreter-guide at Naples had said; there
were hotels more exclusive. There were even hotels more
comfortable.
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