“All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such a day.”
“Oh, I’ll take it iced.”
“Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the others somewhere about.”
They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself.
Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.
“Rex ought to be here, he’s so fond of that.”
Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn’t drink himself, something which the French call a “coquetelle”; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.
“I see you don’t trust to the Café’s supplies.”
“I only keep this for medicinal purposes,” said the other, blinking nervously, “and—and I don’t usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around.”
“But you,” said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, “do you take none yourself?”