At intervals are bronze statues of
what seem a sort of adolescent cherubs, but which have, I do not know
why, a peculiarly devilish appearance. No doubt they are harmless
enough; but certainly they do nothing to keep the flies off the cake.
In fine, as an edifice the Casino disappoints, and if one is not
pressingly curious about the interior, one rather lingers on the terrace
overlooking the sea, and the lines of the railroad following the shore,
and the panorama of the several towns. It is charming to sit there, and
if it is in the afternoon, you may see an artist there painting
water-colors of the scenery. Even if he were not painting, you could not
help knowing him for an artist, because he wears a black velvet jacket
and knickerbockers, and a soft slouch hat, and has a curled black
mustache and pointed beard; there is no mistaking him; and at a given
moment, after he has been working long enough, he puts above his sketch
the sign, "For Sale," as artists always do, and then, if you want a
masterpiece, you go down a few steps from where you are sitting and buy
it.
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