That work
accomplished, I met the others on their arrival in town. Wareham had been
warned of the change in the programme on the previous night, and came up
from Wimbledon with my wife. There was a hasty scramble of a dinner at a
restaurant near Victoria. We were served, I remember, by a very amusing
and familiar waiter, who, addressing M. Zola by preference (I wonder if
he recognised him?), kept on repeating that he was a 'citizen of the most
noble Helvetian Confederation,' and assured us that potatoes for two
would be ample, and that chicken for three would be as much as we should
care to eat. 'Take this,' said he, 'it's to-day's. Don't have that, it
was cooked yesterday.' And all this made us extremely merry. 'It seems to
me more than ever that I am living in a dream,' said M. Zola after a
final laugh. 'That waiter has given the finishing touch to my illusion.'
The train started at nine P.M., and we had a full quarter of an hour at
our disposal for our leave-takings in the dimly-lighted station. There
were few passengers travelling that night, and few loiterers about.
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