George Bernard Shaw had stayed here; Noel Coward had written a play here. 
The lobby was high and narrow, Beaux Arts marble, glorious ironwork 
chandeliers, white light from the Bund buildings filtering in through 
stained-glass arches. An ancient jazz band was playing in the bar, slap bass 
over trashcan drums. Miranda stood on tiptoe in the entrance, looking for the 
party, and saw nothing except middle-aged Caucasian airship tourists 
slow-dancing and the usual lineup of sharp young Chinese men along the bar, 
hoping she'd come in.