For who was there now in the room to mind?
Not a living soul! Only a tall, dark young waiter, a little cross-eyed, who was in consumption; only the little wine-waiter, with a pallid face, and a look as if he suffered.

And the whole world seemed of the colour of the wine they had been drinking; but they talked of indifferent things, and only their eyes, bemused and shining, really spoke.

The dark young waiter stood apart, unmoving, and his cross-eyed glance, fixed on her shoulders, had all unconsciously the longing of a saint in some holy picture.

Unseen, behind the serving screen, the little wine-waiter poured out and drank a glass from a derelict bottle.
Through a chink of the red blinds an eye peered in from the chill outside, staring and curious, till its owner passed on in the cold.
It was long after nine when they rose.

The dark young waiter laid her cloak upon her with adoring hands.