frequented by foreigners on the Riva, for the situation facing the open lagoon is an exceptionally good one; and there are three or four caffes at which the cosmopolitan and not too aristocratic visitor may get an excellent cup of coffee (for the Venetians, thanks to their long connection with the East, know what coffee is, and will not take chiccory or other such detestable substitutes in lieu of it) for the modest charge of thirteen centimes—­just over two cents—­and study as he drinks it the moving and ever-amusing scenes enacted before his eyes.  His neighbor perhaps will be an old gentleman, the very type of the old “pantaloon” whose mask was in the old comedy supposed to be the impersonation of Venice.  There are the long, slender and rather delicately-cut features terminating in a long, narrow and somewhat protruding chin; the high cheek-bones, the lank and sombre cheeks, the high nose, the dark bright eye under its bushy brow.  He is very thin, very seedy, and evidently very poor.  But he salutes you, as you take your seat beside him, with the air of an ex-member of “The Ten;” his ancient hat and napless coat are carefully brushed; his outrageously high shirt-collar and voluminous unstarched neckcloth, after the fashion of a former generation, though as yellow as saffron, are clean; and his poor old boots as irreproachable as blacking—­which can do much, but, alas! not all things—­can make them.  His expenditure of a penny will entitle him not only to a cup of coffee, as aforesaid, but also to a glass of fresh water, which has been turned to an opaline color by the shaking into it of a few drops of something which the waiter drops from a bottle with some contrivance at its mouth, the effect of which is to cause only a drop or two of the liquor, whatever it may be, to come out at each shake.  Our old friend is also entitled, in virtue of his expenditure, to occupy the chair he sits on for as many hours as he shall see fit to remain in it.  And after the coffee, which must be drunk while hot, has been despatched, the sippings of the opaline mixture aforesaid may be protracted indefinitely while he enjoys the cool evening-breezes from the lagoon, the perfection of dolce far niente, and the amusement the life of the Riva never fails to afford him.  An itinerant vender of little models of gondolas and bracelets and toys made out of shells comes by, seeking a customer among the folk assembled at the caffe.  He does not address Pantaloon, for of course he knows that there is nothing to be done in that line with him.  But spying with a hawk’s glance a forestiere among the crowd, he strolls up to him, holding up one of his gimcrack bracelets daintily—­and he thinks temptingly, poor fellow!—­between his finger and thumb.  “Un franco!  Un sol franco! e una beleza per una contesa!” ("One franc! only one franc!  It would be beautiful on the arm of a countess!”) he murmurs in his soft lisping Venetian, which abolishes all double consonants, and supplies their place by prolonging