She no doubt
loved the lambent-eyed gentleman to distraction; the kiosk was their
only refuge, and the whole affair was being so discreetly managed that
neither the lambent-eyed gentleman nor his houri would be obliged to
escape by means of the lilac-bordered path in the rear on this or any
other morning.
And if they should, what did it matter to me? The little row in the
cloud overhead would soon end in further torrents of tears, as all such
rows do; the sun would have its way after all and dry every one of them
up; the hungry part of me would have its filet and pint of St. Julien,
and the painter part of me would go back to the little path by the river
and finish its sketch.
Again I tried to signal the Maitre d'Hotel as he dashed past on his way
to the kiosk. This time he was under one of the huge umbrellas which an
"omnibus" was holding over him, Rajah-fashion. He had a plump melon,
half-smothered in ice, in his hands, to protect it from the downpour,
the rain making gargoyles of the points of the ribs of the umbrella.
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