we breakfasted in the _salle-à-manger_, a large bright room, one or
other of whose many south windows had almost daily, even in the depth of
winter, to be shaded against the rays of the sun. Three chandeliers of
glittering crystal starred with electric lights depended from the
ceiling. Half a dozen small tables stood down each side; four larger
ones occupied the centre of the floor, and were reserved for transient
custom.

The first thing that struck us as peculiar was that every table save
ours was laid for a single person, with a half bottle of wine, red or
white, placed ready, in accordance with the known preference of the
expected guest. We soon gathered that several of the regular customers
lodged outside and, according to the French fashion, visited the hotel
for meals only. After the early days of keen anxiety regarding our
invalid had passed, we began to study our fellow guests individually and
to note their idiosyncrasies. Sitting at our allotted table during the
progress of the leisurely meals, we used to watch as one _habitué_ after
another entered, and, hanging coat and hat upon certain pegs, sat
silently down in his accustomed place, with an unvarying air of calm
deliberation.

Then Iorson, the swift-footed _garçon_, would skim over the polished
boards to the newcomer, and, tendering the menu, would wait, pencil in
hand, until the guest, after careful contemplation, selected his five
_plats_ from its comprehensive list.

[Illustration: Meal Considerations]

The most picturesque man of the company had white moustaches of
surprising length. On cold days he appeared enveloped in a fur coat, a