During the conversation I was busy with my knife and fork, my eyes at
intervals taking in the scene before me; the comings and goings of the
huge umbrellas--one, two, or three, as the serving of the dishes
demanded, the rain streaming from their sides; now the fish, now the
salad, now a second bottle of wine in a cooler, and now the last course
of all on an empty plate, which my companion said was the bill, and
which he characterized as the most important part of the procession,
except the _pour boire_. Each time the procession came to a full stop
outside the kiosk until the sentinel waiter relieved them of their
burdens. My sympathies constantly went out to this man. There was no
room for him inside, and certainly no wish for his company, and so he
must, perforce, balance himself under his umbrella, first on one leg and
then on the other, in his effort to escape the spatter which now reached
his knees, quite as would a wet chicken seeking shelter under a
cart-body.
I say my companion and I "talked" of these several sights and incidents
as I ate my luncheon.
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