Suddenly there was a crash, the breaking of glass, and an exclamation. Tournelli, no doubt disorganized by the unusual hurry, on his way to our table had dropped his tray, impartially distributed a plate of asparagus over an adjoining table, and, flushed and nervous, yet with an affectation of studied calmness, was pouring the sauce into the young Quartermaster's plate, in spite of his languid protests. At any other time we would have laughed, but there was something in the exaggerated agitation of the Italian that checked our mirth. Why should he be so upset by a trifling accident? He could afford to pay for the breakage; he would laugh at dismissal. Was it the sensitiveness of a refined nature, or--he was young and good-looking--was he disconcerted by the fact that our handsome neighbor had witnessed his awkwardness? But she was not laughing, and, as far as I could see, was intently regarding the bill of fare. “Waiter!” called her companion, hailing Tournelli. “Here!” The Italian, with a face now distinctly white, leaned over the table, adjusting the glasses, but did not reply. “Waiter!” repeated the stranger, sharply. Tournelli's face twitched, then became set as a mask; but he did not move. The stranger leaned forward and pulled his apron from behind. Tournelli started with flashing eyes, and turned swiftly round. But the Quartermaster's hand had closed on his wrist. “That's my knife, Tournelli.” The knife dropped from the Italian's fingers. “Better see WHAT he wants. It may not be THAT,” said the young officer, coolly but kindly. Tournelli turned impatiently towards the stranger. We alone had witnessed this incident, and were watching him breathlessly. Yet what bade fair a moment ago to be a tragedy, seemed now to halt grotesquely. For Tournelli, throwing open his linen jacket with a melodramatic gesture, tapped his breast, and with flashing eyes and suppressed accents said, “Sare; you wantah me? Look--I am herre!” The speculator leaned back in his chair in good-humored astonishment. The lady's black eyes, without looking at Tournelli, glanced backward round the room, and slipped along our table, with half-defiant unconcern; and then she uttered a short hysterical laugh. “Ah! ze lady--madame--ze signora--eh--she wantah me?” continued Tournelli, leaning on the table with compressed fingers, and glaring at her. “Perhaps SHE wantah Tournelli--eh?” “Well, you might bring some with the soup,” blandly replied her escort, who seemed to enjoy the Italian's excitement as a national eccentricity; “but hurry up and set the table, will you?”