It was 7.45 on a particularly sultry June
night, and dinner was about to be served at the Grand Babylon.
Men of all sizes, ages, and nationalities, but every one alike
arrayed in faultless evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim
apartment. A faint odour of flowers came from the conservatory,
and the tinkle of a fountain. The waiters, commanded by Jules,
moved softly across the thick Oriental rugs, balancing their trays
with the dexterity of jugglers, and receiving and executing orders
with that air of profound importance of which only really
first-class waiters have the secret. The atmosphere was an
atmosphere of serenity and repose, characteristic of the Grand
Babylon. It seemed impossible that anything could occur to mar
the peaceful, aristocratic monotony of existence in that
perfectly-managed establishment. Yet on that night was to happen
the mightiest upheaval that the Grand Babylon had ever known.
'Yes, sir?' repeated Jules, and this time there was a shade of august
disapproval in his voice: it was not usual for him to have to
address a customer twice.
'Oh!' said the alert, middle-aged man, looking up at length.
Beautifully ignorant of the identity of the great Jules, he allowed
his grey eyes to twinkle as he caught sight of the expression on the
waiter's face. 'Bring me an Angel Kiss.'
'Pardon, sir?'
'Bring me an Angel Kiss, and be good enough to lose no time.
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