“That’s very kind of you,” she said in English; “but it seems rather ridiculous for an American and an Englishman to converse in a foreign language.” “How do you know I am English, mademoiselle?” he asked, his heart a-flutter at the unexpected interchange of words. She laughed. “I have eyes. Besides, I know all about you—first from our friend Corinna Hastings, and lately from my little hostess over the way.” He flushed, charmed by the deep music of her voice and delighted at being recognised by her not only as an individual (for she radiated an attraction which had caused him to hate the conventional impersonality of waiterdom) but as a member more or less of her own social class. He paused, plate of crumbs in one hand and napkin in the other. “Do you know Corinna Hastings?” “Evidently. How else could she have told me of your romantic doings?” she replied laughingly, and Martin flushed deeper, conscious of an idiot question. He set the apples and little white grapes before her. “I ought to have asked you,” said he, “how Miss Hastings came to talk to you about me?” “She came on the train from Brantôme and rang my bell in Paris. She kept me up talking till four o’clock in the morning—not of you all the time. Don’t imagine it. You were just interestingly incidental.” “_Garçon_,” cried a voice from the centre table. “_Bien, m’sieur._” Martin tucked his napkin under his arm and turned away, followed by Lucilla’s humorous glance. “_L’addition!_” “_Bien, m’sieur._” He became the perfect waiter again, and brought the bill to the commercial traveller who had merely come in for dinner. The latter paid in even money, rose noisily—he was a stout, important, red-faced man—and, fumbling in several pockets rendered difficult of access by adiposity and good cheer, at last produced four coppers which he deposited with a base, metallic chink in Martin’s palm. “_Merci, m’sieur. Bon soir, m’sieur_,” said the perfect waiter. But he would have given much to be able to dispose of the horrible coins otherwise than by thrusting them in his trouser pocket, to be able, for instance, to hurl them at the triple sausage neck of the departing donor; for he knew the starry, humorous eyes of the divinity were fixed on him. He felt hot and clammy and did not dare look round. And the hideous thought flashed through his mind: “Will she offer me a tip when she leaves?” He busied himself furiously with his service, and, in a few moments, was relieved to see her ceremoniously conducted by Bigourdin and Félise from the _salle-à-manger_. On the threshold Bigourdin paused and called him. “You will serve coffee and liqueurs in the _petit salon_, and if you go to the Café de l’Univers, you will kindly make my excuses to our friends.”