Evidently the breakfast was too important and the expected fee too large
to intrust it to an underling. He must serve it himself.
Up to this Moment no portion of my order had materialized. No cover for
one, nor filet, nor _vin ordinaire_, nor waiter had appeared. The
painter was growing impatient. The man inside was becoming hungry.
I waited until he emerged with an empty dish, watched him grasp the
giant umbrella, teeter on the edge of the kiosk for a moment, and plunge
through the gravel, now rivers of water, toward my kiosk, the "omnibus"
following as best he could.
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur--" he cried from beneath his shelter, as
he read my face. "It will not be long now. It is coming--here, you can
see for yourself--" and he pointed across the garden, and tramped on,
the water spattering his ankles.
I looked and saw a solemn procession of huge umbrellas, the ones used
over the _tete-a-tete_ tables beneath the trees, slowly wending its way
toward where I sat, with all the measured movement and dignity of a file
of Eastern potentates out for an airing.
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