Page:The Yellow Book - 08.djvu/244

by desperately saving up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years time, perhaps even in five—the lady would wait five years! and her present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!—how it might be possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British cry for "waiter" comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue feathers around his pomatumed head.

Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face; they too catch far echoes of the strange music of her brain; they too grow dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful heart.

How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace; with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups—shall it be "clear or thick?" And when she decides on "thick" how relieved they seem to be, as if—well, some few matters remain undecided in the universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever, no more doubts possible on one portentous issue, at any rate—Madame will take her soup "thick."

"On such a night" our talk fell upon whitebait.

As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her plate, she turned to me and said:

"Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait are?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, "they are the daisies of the deep sea, the threepenny-pieces of the ocean."

"You dear!" said the Sphinx, who is alone in the world inthinking