It is a riot of strange and beautiful
colour--vivid and Eastern and utterly intoxicating. A very talented and
picturesque Villager has painted every inch of it himself, including the
mysterious-looking Arabian gentleman in brilliantly hued wood, who sits
cross-legged luring you into the little place of magic. The wrought iron
brackets on the wall are patches of vivid tints; the curtains at the
windows are colour-dissonances, fascinating and bizarre. As usual there
is candlelight. And, as usual, there is the same delicious spirit of
seriously and whole-heartedly playing the game. While you are there you
are in the East. If it isn't the East to you, you can go away--back to
Philistia.
And speaking of candlelight. I went into the poets' favourite "Will o'
the Wisp" tea shop once and found the gas-jet lighted! The young girl
in charge jumped up, much embarrassed, and turned it out.
"I'm so sorry!" she apologised. "But I wanted to _see_ just a moment,
and lighted it!"
I peered at her face in the ghostly candlelight.
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