And she was pretty punctual on the present occasion, arriving in the person of a small, child-faced gentleman, so pacific in expression, that the cloak and brigand’s “slouch” he wore were nothing less than an outrage on credulity. He came up to the isolated table, and claimed its tenant in a voice so little and soft that at a yard distant it might have passed for a purr:—
“Greeting to thee, Spartacus, Provincial of Allobrox!”
Bonito’s acknowledgment was in like tone, but surly and between his teeth—half purr, half spit:—
“Greeting, Maître-d’Hôtel-in-Ordinary to King Priam—or, greeting, Caius Sempronius Gracchus, illuminatus minor!—whichever you like best to be called by.”
“Can you doubt, master?”
“I give myself no concern about it. Sit down, schoolboy.”
The little man obeyed, meek and deferential. Bonito cast a supercilious look at him.
“You grow sleek on plenty, Maître d’Hôtel. Beware! Do you not see the walls of Cosmopolis rising inch by inch to the clouds? We shall put on the roof in a little, and hang our flag from it. How about your office then? There will be no fat sinecures there for such as you.”
“Master, I desire no greater privilege, now or ever, than that of following your footsteps.”
“A pampered pug; a greasy, royal lick-platter. Look at me—Spartacus, Provincial of Allobrox—to thee, as Jupiter to a call-boy! My footsteps, quotha! Art thou not Apicious, pug?”