We discussed the
storm, the prospect of its clearing, the number of unfortunates in the
adjacent Bois who were soaked to the skin, especially the poor little
bicycle-girls in their cotton bloomers, now collapsed and bedraggled. We
talked of the great six-day cross-country bicycle-race, and how the
winner, tired out, had wabbled over the Bridge that same morning, with
the whole pack behind him, having won by less than five minutes. We
talked of the people who came and went, and who they were, and how often
they dined, and what they spent, and ate and drank, and of the rich
American who had given the waiter a gold Louis for a silver franc, and
who was too proud to take it back when his attention was called to the
mistake (which my companion could not but admit was quite foolish of
him); and, finally, of the dark-skinned Oriental with the lambent eyes,
and the adorable Ernestine with the pointed shoes and open-work silk
stockings and fluffy skirts, who occupied the kiosk within ten feet of
where I sat and he stood.
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