The Armenian, in fez and baggy trousers, spoke of the Unspeakable Turk.

The mandolin player, dressed like a bull fighter, held musical conversaziones, interpreting the peasant songs of Andalusia.
It was the Fake, the eternal, irrepressible Sham; glib, nimble, ubiquitous, tricked out in all the paraphernalia of imposture, an endless defile of charlatans that passed interminably before the gaze of the city, marshalled by "lady presidents," exploited by clubs of women, by literary societies, reading circles, and culture organisations.

The attention the Fake received, the time devoted to it, the money which it absorbed, were incredible.

It was all one that impostor after impostor was exposed; it was all one that the clubs, the circles, the societies were proved beyond doubt to have been swindled.

The more the Philistine press of the city railed and guyed, the more the women rallied to the defence of their protege of the hour.