. . There is something
about the intimacy and color and gaiety of the restaurants. . . .
Let me tell some stories to prove my point. Anybody who has lived in San
Francisco has heard them by scores. I pick one or two at random.
A group of Native Sons were once dining in one of the little Bohemian
restaurants of San Francisco. Two of them made a bet with the others
that they could kiss every woman in the room. They went from table to
table and in mellifluous accents, plus a strain of hyperbole, explained
their predicament to each lady, concluding with a respectful demand for
a kiss. Every woman in the room (with the gallant indulgence of her
swain) acceded to this amazing request. In fifteen minutes all the
kisses were collected and the wager won. I don't know on which this
story reflects the greater credit - the Native Daughter or the Native
Son. But I do know that it couldn't have happened anywhere but in
California.
The first time I visited San Francisco shortly after the fire, I was
walking one day in rather a lonely part of the city. There were many
burnt areas about: only a few pedestrians. Presently, I saw a man and
woman leaning against a fence, absorbed in conversation.
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