"For the head waiter," said Vjera, timidly.

The porter took the basket, set it down, touched the button of an electric
bell and silently looked at the pair with the malignant scrutiny which is
the prerogative of servants in their manner with those whom they are
privileged to consider as their inferiors. Presently, however, meeting the
Count's cold stare, he turned away and strolled up the vestibule. A moment
later the head waiter appeared, glorious in a perfectly new evening coat
and a phenomenal shirt front.

"Ah, my cigarettes!" he exclaimed briskly, and the Count heard the chink
of the nickel pence, as the head waiter inserted two fat white fingers
into the pocket of his exceedingly fashionable waistcoat.

The sight which must follow was one which the Count was anxious not to
see. He therefore turned his back and pretended to brush from his sleeve a
speck of dust revealed to his searching eye in the strong afternoon light
which streamed through the open door. Then Vjera's low-spoken word of
thanks and her light tread made him aware that she had received her little
gratuity; he stood politely aside while she passed out, and then went down
the half-dozen steps with her. As they began to move up the street, he did
not offer her his arm again.

"You are so kind, so kind to me," said poor Vjera. "How can I ever thank
you!"

"Between you and me there is no question of thanks," answered her
companion. "Or if there is to be such a question it should arise in
another way. It is for me to thank you."