We left it there and
walked up the light-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty
as pavilion glasses clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden
floor; a burst of music followed a sharp fusillade of
applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a
company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of
scarlet and green and black. The scene was very noisy,
and very bright, and very German.
"Not in there, eh?" said Von Gerhard, as though
divining my wish. "It is too brightly lighted, and too
noisy. We will find a table out here under the trees,
where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes
are not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But
inexcusably ugly they are, these Tyrolese women."
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion's
lights, but still so near the lake that we could hear the
water lapping the shore. A cadaverous, sandy-haired
waiter brought things to eat, and we made brave efforts
to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were
ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught.
One of the women singers appeared suddenly in the doorway
of the pavilion, then stole down the steps, and disappeared
in the shadow of the trees beyond our table.
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