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.  There was no doubt about its energy; and this, at least, was consoling.  Nothing is more annoying than your uncertain morning, when you don’t know whether to start or stay at home.  On these occasions, whichever you do turns out a mistake.

But the following day our patience was rewarded by bright sunshine and blue skies.  “The very day for Roscoff,” said Madame Hellard; “though I cannot think why you are determined to pay it a visit.  There is absolutely nothing to see.  It is a sad town, and its streets are given over to melancholy.  Of course, you will take St. Pol de Leon on your way.  It is equally quiet, and even less picturesque.”