Certain it was that the party often got riotously tipsy.
So tipsy that sometimes their host was unable to be moved down to his
villa. On such days he was put to bed on the floor between two wine
barrels, and the chef hastily advised to come up with some food and a
portable kitchen range. In earliest morning he would insist upon
tottering forth to watch the sun as it rose behind the peaks of the
distant mainland, flooding the sea with golden radiance and causing the
precipices to glitter like burnished bronze. He loved the sunrise--he
saw it so seldom. Then breakfast; a rather simple breakfast by way of a
change. It was on one of these occasions that the chef made a mistake
which his master was slow to forgive. He prepared for that critical
meal a dish of poached eggs, the sight of which threw Mr. Keith into an
incomprehensible fit of rage.
"Take those damned things away, quickly!" he commanded. It was the
celebrated artist's one and only LACHE.
As a rule, however, he did not sleep on the spot.
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