and me, I believe he is fully as capable--and yet he finds time to
write a letter to his old mother at Hamburg--I have seen him do it.
Perhaps it was about the cigars! The only people who hate ADOLF are
the Under-Waiters; he rules them with a rod of iron, marshalling their
heated battalions at _table d'hôte_, and plundering them of their
sweethearts; if he breaks anything (hearts included), it is they who
have to pay. It is ADOLF's only weakness--he is a bully to underlings
of his own trade. But then he has been an Under-Waiter once himself,
and suffering brutalises; however, he is outside the sphere of
morality, and I could pardon him almost anything.

From time to time his fascinations induce an Englishman or
Englishwoman to take this treasure home as a servant. But ADOLF in
livery, and ADOLF with his magic order-book, are two very different
people. Little things are missing; he becomes quarrelsome; the
gipsy-spirit returns--and he is off again, blithe as ever, on his
travels. "London very naice," he says, as you buy that infernal
Pestarena; "Porebier, very naise; 'Ampton Court, very naise; I know
dem, hein? But, is no sunshine, no air, no gaiety." And ADOLF cannot
exist without sunshine, air, and gaiety. Also he prefers being his own
master, which, as Head-Waiter, he practically is.

How insinuating he is about the food, "Some naice fishes? Dey was
laiving dis morning." And then, how accommodating! I was once in the
Grand Hôtel during the usual "exceptional season," when it rained
unintermittently for a fortnight; the place was empty; "tristeful,"
as ADOLF styled it. The genius played billiards with me every day, and
always won, though I rather fancy myself; and then how mindful he is
of your individual bettings. "I gif you dis place by de window--_to do
you joy_!" he ejaculates. The simple creature, he is constantly trying