am sure of it!"

The lift which brought things up from the kitchen was at the end of the
room, and every now and then she would go to it, and in a shrill voice,
which seemed to penetrate to very far-off regions--Halls of Eblis or
caverns measureless to man--cry out "LA SUITE!" the _a_ very much
_circumflexed_ with true Breton pronunciation.

It was amusing, occasionally, when a certain dish was sent up that in
some way or other did not please her, to hear it sent down again in the
return lift accompanied by a reprimand that was very much to the point,
and was audible to the assembled room. The whole table on those
occasions would break into laughter, for her reprimand was always spiced
with inimitable humour, which penetrated even the impervious Breton
intellect.

Then she would fly down the room with the dish returned to her
satisfaction, a suppressed smile lurking about the corners of her mouth,
and, addressing the table at large with a freedom that only the French
can assume without familiarity, exclaim: "It is not because some of you
give the chef too much to do, with your enormous capacities, that I am
going to allow him to neglect his work." And the table would laugh again
and applaud Catherine, the head waitress. For she was very capable and
therefore very popular, as ministering well to their wants. And the
Breton temperament is seldom sensitive.

She had her favourites, to whom she was devoted, making no secret of her
preference. We were amongst the fortunate, and soon fell into her good
graces. Woe betide anyone who attempted to appropriate our seats before
we entered; or a waitress who brought us the last remnants of a
dish--for nothing seemed to escape her observation. She was most
concerned about H.C.'s want of appetite and ethereal
appearance--certainly a startling contrast to some of her experiences.

[Illustration: CREISKER, ST. POL DE LEON.]

"Monsieur hasn't the appetite of a lark," she complained to me one
morning. "Tell him that the Breton climate is as difficult to fight as
the Breton soldier; and if he does not eat, he will be washed away by
the rains. WHAT EYES!" she exclaimed; "quite the eyes of a poet. I am
sure monsieur is a poet. Have I not reason?"

Thus proving herself even more that an excellent waitress--a woman of
penetration.

We have said that the day after our aquatic adventure at the little inn
by the river-side, "Au retour de la Peche," the rain came down with
vengeance. Th