He sat next to the Britisher--on the same banquette. Thus when the infuriated man surged upright he stood alongside Paul and between our two tables. Paul stretched out his foot, rested his shoe on the corner of the Englishman's table, and untied the lace. The man, barred by the long leg, said, "Good Gad!" Paul retied the lace. He looked dimly at the Englishman--who, I honestly believe, had not so much as noticed or recalled a single person in the room but himself all during the baked apple affair. It is a kind of concentration peculiar to the British. "Put down your foot, man!" "Quintod!" Paul said, as if using rare syllables of opprobrium: "Quidhetch! Vassenoy!" He moved his foot this way and that, eying it. Even the Englishwoman was staring at it now, in some shock. After all, it was on her table, twenty inches from her picklelike nose, and not a victual. Paul turned again to the standing man and hissed, "Kittenpitches!" "Waiter!" Fred was still standing there--still fairly impassive. He had the wit to say, "Yes, sir?" "This person is drunk!" Paul came to his feet then--and towered over the Englishman. He bent close. "Pomadiant nocrot," he said harshly. "Cantapunce. Cabulate geepross. Dreek!" The Englishman opened his mouth and emitted a thin, high, frightened squeak. Paul scowled. "Nikerpole," he said, sadly now. "Oose." Quite suddenly, Paul sat down. He spoke to Marcia in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone--but a tone loud enough to carry around the respectfully quieted room. "Never did understand why people came here without first learning the language. _And_ the manners. I dare say my Japanese surprised him! Probably an admiral in civies, spying out the next war. Got a camera in his mustache, I presume, clever devils!" The Englishman then left the room, shaking from head to foot. His wife, however, remained staring at her plate. By and by Fred brought her a stewed fish with which she began to fill her baleful gizzard. I would have thought--I would have bet--that this was the end of such things. The tray, alone, would have done as the month's quota for this proper restaurant. I was wrong. Hardly had the Englishman departed--hardly had his wife commenced to make slushing sounds with the cream sauce on her fish--hardly had I dried my tears--when the corner of the eye opposite the one that had caught sight of the teetering tray drew my attention in its new direction. This was toward the bar. Here Mrs. Doffin was sitting at her regular table. She had been sitting there, lunch and dinner, when I had first entered the Knight's Bar in 1937. A tall, narrow woman with dyed red hair, who was given to wearing witches' hats--such hats as women wore in Merlin's day--round and pointed. A stovepipe of a woman with a face on which a bleached fuzz grew, and eyes that resembled spoon-backs.