CHAPTER X.
Patience and the Waiter.
The slowest waiter I know is the British railway refreshment-room waiter.
His very breathing--regular, harmonious, penetrating, instinct as it is with all the better attributes of a well-preserved grandfather's clock--conveys suggestion of dignity and peace.

He is a huge, impressive person.

There emanates from him an atmosphere of Lotusland.

The otherwise unattractive refreshment-room becomes an oasis of repose amid the turmoil of a fretful world.

All things conspire to aid him: the ancient joints, ranged side by side like corpses in a morgue, each one decently hidden under its white muslin shroud, whispering of death and decay; the dish of dead flies, thoughtfully placed in the centre of the table; the framed advertisements extolling the virtues of heavy beers and stouts, of weird champagnes, emanating from haunted-looking chateaux, situate--if one may judge from the illustration--in the midst of desert lands; the sleep-inviting buzz of the bluebottles.
The spirit of the place steals over you.