The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and puffed¹ like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons² moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running. The train was going along the broad avenue that ends at the Seine. The sultry heat at the close of a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky, suffocating³, warm dust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled the eyes and got into the lungs. People stood in the doorways⁴ of their houses to try and get a breath of air.

 

The windows of the steam-tram were open and the curtains fluttered in the wind. There were very few passengers inside, because on warm days people preferred the outside or the platforms. They consisted of stout⁶ women in peculiar⁷ costumes, of those shopkeepers' wives from the suburbs, who made up for the distinguished⁸ looks which they did not possess by ill-assumed dignity; of men tired from office-work, with yellow faces, stooped shoulders, and with one shoulder higher than the other, in consequence of, their long hours of writing at a desk. Their uneasy and melancholy⁹ faces also spoke¹⁰ of domestic troubles, of constant want of money, disappointed hopes, for they all belonged to the army of poor, threadbare devils who vegetate¹¹ economically in cheap, plastered houses with a tiny piece of neglected garden on the

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