He was a sharp-faced middle-aged man of
business; Joseph Ashmead, operatic and theatrical agent--at his wits'
end; a female singer at the Homburg Opera had fallen really ill; he was
commissioned to replace her, and had only thirty hours to do it in. So he
was hunting a singer. What the lady was hunting can never be known,
unless she should choose to reveal it.
Karl, the waiter, felt bound to rouse these abstracted guests, and
stimulate their appetites. He affected, therefore, to look on them as
people who had not yet breakfasted, and tripped up to Mr. Ashmead with a
bill of fare, rather scanty.
The busiest Englishman can eat, and Ashmead had no objection to snatch a
mouthful; he gave his order in German with an English accent. But the
lady, when appealed to, said softly, in pure German, "I will wait for the
_table-d'hote."_
"The _table-d'hote!_ It wants four hours to that."
The lady looked Karl full in the face, and said, slowly, and very
distinctly, "Then, I--will--wait--four--hours."
These simple words, articulated firmly, and in a contralto voice of
singular volume and sweetness, sent Karl skipping; but their effect on
Mr.
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