"My apologies to you, too, sir."
Simon grinned. "I didn't feel a thing."
Dr. Zellermann flushed deeper, then smiled,
"But that's all forgotten. We can be friendly together, and have a pleasant lunch. I like to eat here. The cuisine is excellent, the service—"
There was more of this. Considerably more. The Saint let his eyes rove over the dining room which clattered discreetly with glass and silverware. Waiters went unobtrusively from table to table. Those with trays held the Saint's eyes.
Dr. Zellermann finished his eulogy of the restaurant, followed Simon's gaze.
"Oh, a drink, a drink by all means. Waiter!"
The waiter, so completely different from those sampled by the Saint in Cookie's the day before, came to their table as if he had crawled four miles over broken glass.
"May I serve you, sir?"
"Martinis, Manhattans?" the doctor inquired.