The Firefly of France by Marion Polk Angellotti
page 7 of 226 (03%)
page 7 of 226 (03%)
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"_Kamerad_!" I begged pathetically. "Come, Dunny, let's be sociable.
After all, you know, it's my last evening; and if you call me such names, you will be sorry when I am gone. By the way, speaking of Huns--it was you, the neutral, who mentioned them,--does it strike you there are quite a few of them on the staff of this hotel? I hope they won't poison me. Look at the head waiter, look at half the waiters round, and see that blond-haired, blue-eyed menial. Do you think he saw his first daylight in these United States?" The menial in question was a uniformed bellboy winding in and out among tables and paging some elusive guest. As he approached, his chant grew plainer. "Mr. Bayne," he was droning. "Room four hundred and three." I raised a hand in summons, and he paused beside my seat. "Telephone call for you, sir," he informed me. With a word to my guardian, I pushed my chair back and crossed the room. But at the door I found my path barred by the _maitre d'hotel_, who, at the sight of my progress, had sprung forward, like an arrow from a bow. "Excuse me, sir. You're not leaving, are you?" The man was actually breathing hard. Deferential as his bearing was, I saw no cause for the inquiry, and with some amusement and more annoyance, I wondered if he suspected me of slipping out to evade my bill. "No," I said, staring him up and down; "I'm not!" I passed down the hall to the entrance of the telephone booths. Glancing back, I could see |
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