“Haben Sie bouillon?” he demanded immediately.
The waitress signified that bouillon was not to be.
“How shall I do?” he asked, looking blank. “In all my life I have never eat without a bouillon before?”
Rosina and the waitress felt their mutual helplessness in this difficulty, and the proceedings in hand came to a standstill natural under the circumstances.
“Can’t they make you some?” the American brain suggested.
He turned the idea over in his mind once or twice and then:
“No,” he said; “it is not worth. It will be better that we eat now, and later, when I am in town, I will get a bouillon.”
So, that difficulty being disposed of, he ordered a species of repast with an infinite sense of amusement over the bill of fare. The waitress then retired and they were left alone in their corner.
“The other lady is getting kissed,” Rosina said. The publicity of a certain grade of continental love-making is always both interesting and amazing to the Anglo-Saxon temperament.
He looked behind him without at all disturbing what was in progress there. After a minute’s quiet stare he turned back in his seat and shrugged his shoulders.