One of them was that he went every day to the American banker's, where he found a post-office that was almost as sociable and colloquial an institution as in an American country town.

He passed an hour (in fine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonly well at his own table, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs.
Luce's happiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in the French capital.

Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the Cafe Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of felicity to his companions and an object of admiration even to the headwaiter of the establishment.

These were his only known pastimes, but they had beguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtless justified his frequent declaration that there was no place like Paris.
In no other place, on these terms, could Mr.Luce flatter himself that he was enjoying life.

There was nothing like Paris, but it must be confessed that Mr.Luce thought less highly of this scene of his dissipations than in earlier days.