“Oo be so tross,” she said, “Lola talk to nice Man uvver side of her!”
With that she turned her back upon him and prattled merrily to the gentleman of sixteen upon her right.
Still and cold sat William. Let her talk to the Man at the other side of her as she would, and never so gaily, William knew that she was conscious every instant of the reproachful presence upon her left. And somehow these moments of quiet and melancholy dignity became the most satisfactory he had known that evening. For as he sat, so silent, so austere, and not yet eating, though a plate of chicken salad had been placed upon his lap, he began to feel that there was somewhere about him a mysterious superiority which set him apart from other people—and above them. This quality, indefinable and lofty, had carried him through troubles, that very night, which would have wrecked the lives of such simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson. And although Miss Pratt continued to make merry with the Man upon her right, it seemed to William that this was but outward show. He had a strange, subtle impression that the mysterious superiority which set him apart from others was becoming perceptible to her—that she was feeling it, too.
Alas! Such are the moments Fate seizes upon to play the clown!
Over the chatter and laughter of the guests rose a too familiar voice. “Lemme he'p you to nice tongue samwich, lady. No'm? Nice green lettuce samwich, lady?”
Genesis!
“Nice tongue samwich, suh? Nice lettuce samwich, lady?” he could be heard vociferating—perhaps a little too much as if he had sandwiches for sale. “Lemme jes' lay this nice green lettuce samwich on you' plate fer you.”
His wide-spread hand bore the tray of sandwiches high overhead, for his style in waiting was florid, though polished. He walked with a faint, shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissome pomposity adopted in obedience to the art-sense within him which bade him harmonize himself with occasions of state and fashion. His manner was the super-supreme expression of graciousness, but the graciousness was innocent, being but an affectation and nothing inward—for inwardly Genesis was humble. He was only pretending to be the kind of waiter he would like to be.
And because he was a new waiter he strongly wished to show familiarity with his duties—familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody. This yearning, born of self-doubt, and intensified by a slight touch of gin, was beyond question the inspiration of his painful behavior when he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, Miss Parcher, Miss Pratt, Miss Boke, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others—and William.
“Nice tongue samwich, lady!” he announced, semi-cake-walking beneath his high-borne tray.