The prettiest girls in Paris, in bewitching bicycle costumes, linger
about the music-stand, losing themselves in the arbors and shrubberies.
The kiosks are almost all occupied: charming little Chinese pagodas
these--eight-sided, with lattice screens on all sides--screens so
tightly woven that no curious idler can see in, and yet so loosely put
together that each hidden inmate can see out. Even the trees overhead
have a hand in the villany, spreading their leaves thickly, so that the
sun itself has a hard time to find out what is going on beneath their
branches. All this you become aware of as you enter the big, wide gate.
Of course, being quite alone, with only my battered old umbrella for
company, I did not want a whole kiosk to myself, or even half of a giant
umbrella. Any quiet corner would do for me, I told the Maitre d'Hotel,
who relieved me of my sketch-trap--anywhere out of the rain when it
should again break loose, which it was evidently about to do, judging
from the appearance of the clouds--anywhere, in fact, where I could eat
a filet smothered in mushrooms, and drink a pint of _vin ordinaire_
in peace.
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