The Poodle Dog, a high new ugly building, stood on the corner of Eddy and Mason Streets in the very centre of the Tenderloin, or "all night district." For two or three blocks on every side there was a blaze of light, electric signs, illuminated windows, sudden flashes from swinging doors. There was much movement, life, laughter, carriages in the street driving from restaurant to theatre. And all beyond, east and west, south and north, was a city as dark and quiet as the grave. The hill tops were picked out with a few lights, but one could barely see them from this region that never slept. Nor could one see Chinatown and Barbary coast, nor other sections more picturesque than creditable, where the cheaper gas blazed late, and not even a policeman was sure of his morrow if he ventured too far. But here was the sound of music and decorous laughter, the clang of street-cars and the constant rattle of carriages: the restaurants were beginning to empty; there would be an hour or two of comparative quiet, and then another crowd would fill the streets, the restaurants, even the saloons; a crowd that rarely saw daylight mixing amiably with respectable but undomestic citizens that could afford to sleep late.
At present the scene was brilliant. "The San Franciscan loves the outside life as much as the Londoner," said Isabel to Gwynne, as they stood a moment almost blinded by the lower signs. "In many ways you will find them not unlike—especially as regards fads. Wait until you have been really initiated into intellectual Bohemia—the clever young newspaper men and budding authors. I already hate the names of Ibsen, Shaw, Wilde, Symons, Maeterlinck, and Gorky. I am only waiting for them to discover Max Klinger and Manet—"
"Klinger?" asked Stone. "Where have I heard that name?"
"He is the great unconscious humorist of modern art, also a great etcher," said Isabel, dryly. "Have you ever heard of the Secessionists?"
"Of course," replied Stone, huffily. "You imagine that because you have been to Europe—"
"Well, have you ever heard of the Scholles?"
Gwynne laughed aloud. "If he has not, I should champion the octopus proclivities of California."
"They are the very best draughtsmen in the world—"
But Paula had no intention that the conversation should be general. It had been agreed that they should visit Chinatown, and she took Gwynne's arm and led him up the hill; she found his cool impersonal manner almost fascinating after a lifetime in a nest of horned egos. They walked up through the semi-darkness to Clay Street and down to Portsmouth Square, passing through an entirely disreputable region, but quiet at this hour. As they crossed the Old Plaza—now Portsmouth Square—Isabel explained that it had been the nucleus of the San Francisco of the Fifties, and that people had crowded nightly against the great plate-glass windows on one of the corners to watch the gamblers and the hillocks of gold on every table; and that no doubt their common ancestor, who was a convivial adventurous soul, had brawled here many a night. Mrs. Paula, who knew absolutely nothing of the history of either California or San Francisco, hastened her steps, and in consequence excited the always smouldering jealousy of her husband. Stone had an exaggerated idea of her beauty and youth, and felt his own power waning, moreover had all the average American's Oriental instinct for exclusive possession. Consequently, as they entered the flaming bit of Hong-Kong on the opposite side of the square, Gwynne, infinitely to his satisfaction, found that there had been a deft exchange of partners.
He had been in China, and the sudden entrance into an illusion more complete than even the stage could achieve almost took his breath away. There were the same crowds of stolid faces and dark-blue blouses, relieved here and there with the rich garments of the merchants and the women; the hundreds of tiny high balconies; the gorgeous windows filled with embroideries and porcelain, Satsuma and bronzes. He was glad to stroll with Isabel through a scene so like a picture-book, and to exclaim with her over the novel sensation of passing from the quintessence of the Western world into a bit of ancient civilization. She realized the psychology of every violent contrast as no companion he had ever known, and when she told him of the adjacent Spanish Town, Little Italy, Nigger Town, Sailor Town, where representatives of the scum of every clime were no doubt qualifying for purgatory at the moment, he experienced a lively regret that there were places he must explore without her comment.
It was a gala night in Chinatown. Even the provision shops were festooned with sausages ornamented with bits of colored paper, and decorated paper or silken lanterns hung before every house. Painted women with stolid faces, often deeply imprinted with misery, rolled along, and there were many pretty children in the street, painted too, and dressed in the gayest and richest of garments. On the balconies of the upper and greater restaurants were valuable jars and vases full of plants and flowers. They ascended to the finest of these restaurants and found a merchant's party eating at round tables from dolls' plates. In a room opening upon a veranda, their creatures chanted what sounded to Occidental ears like the dirge of the lost souls of all the Flowery Empire, and the expression of the relaxed haunted faces confirmed the impression. In large alcoves well-dressed Chinamen reclined on tables of marble and teakwood, filling and refilling the opium pipe with an infinity of patience that if otherwise applied might have led to greatness instead of dreams.
"These men are just on exhibition," said Stone, contemptuously. "Wait till I show you the real thing down in the slime. Lots of tall stories about Chinatown, but the reality is bad enough."
They took a Jackson Street car and rode up through humbler Chinatown, then through quarters of varying respectability until they reached the sacred precinct of Nob Hill. Here there was an aristocratic calm, but much light, and faint strains of music. The season was in full swing, and society was either dining, or dressing for the dance.
As they climbed the hill-stair Stone artfully trimmed the ragged edges of his wife's discontent. Subservient as she was to him, there were times when her temper flew straight and sharp like a blade too long hooped, and he had his reasons for conciliating her.
Said Gwynne in a low tone as they felt their way up the dark and precarious flight: "Shall you think me rude if I accept Hofer's invitation for to-morrow? And Stone wants me to do the town a bit to-night. I am most curious—but I am your guest—and I can come down another time—"
"I feel almost cross with you. This house is your hotel. If you ever go to another—whether I am in town or not—there will be trouble."
So it was that as they reached the steps leading up to the door of the house, Stone dropped his wife's arm, which had lain somewhat rigidly in his, and catching Gwynne firmly by the elbow, beat a rapid retreat.
"Good-night, darling!" he cried. "We're off to do the town." Throwing up first one leg then the other in black silhouette against the stars, he sang: "And we won't be home till morning, till morning—"
The voice drifted up from the corner of Taylor and Broadway, where the two men waited for a car. "Till daylight doth appear."
Mrs. Paula was gasping. "Well, I never—never—" she exclaimed, as Isabel hastily marshalled her up the stair and into the house. "I hope they'll be garroted! That's all! But it's just like the selfish beasts of men—"
"What difference does it make? Didn't Lyster agree to be host? It would be too dismal for Gwynne to roam through the purlieus with a policeman—and he cannot come down often. It's bedtime, anyhow."
"Bedtime?" cried Mrs. Paula. "Why, it's only ten o'clock. But I forgot that you go to bed and get up with chickens."
"I should think you would be grateful to go to bed early, once in a while."
"Oh, I often retire early enough, if it comes to that. It's listening half the night—all, is more like it—for the last car, and then for a hack galloping from side to side up that hill, as if the driver and the very horses were drunk themselves. I tell you it's a life!"
"And don't you get used to it?" asked Isabel with curiosity. "You've been married thirteen years, and I suppose Lyster has always been what he calls an all-nighter."
"There are some things a wife never gets used to," replied Paula with injured dignity, as she held out a doubting hand for the candle Isabel had lighted. "Haven't you gas or electricity?"
"There is gas, but why take the trouble to light it? And the candle recalls so many delightful evenings in England. I know no prettier picture than a procession of long-trained women, with bare shoulders, and jewels in their hair, each carrying a candle up a long stair beside the central hall."
"Ah! I have no such charming reminiscences of the English aristocracy, and I am only afraid of spilling candle grease on my one decent dress."