"Do you mean to keep this up?" I protested.
Mr. Bundercombe beckoned to the maître d'hôtel who came hastily to his side.
"Do you know this gentleman?" he asked.
The maître d'hôtel bowed.
"Certainly, sir," he answered, with a questioning glance toward me. "This is Mr. Walmsley."
"Then will you take Mr. Walmsley back to his place?" Mr. Bundercombe begged. "He persists in mistaking me for some one else. I am not complaining, mind," he added affably; "no complaint whatever! I am quite sure the young gentleman is genuinely mistaken and does not mean to be in any way offensive. Only my digestion is not what it should be and these little contretemps in the middle of luncheon are disturbing. Run away, sir, please!" he concluded, waving his hand toward me.
The maître d'hôtel looked at me and I looked at the maître d'hôtel. Then I glanced at Mr. Bundercombe, who remained quite unruffled. Finally I bowed slightly toward the young lady and returned to my place.
"Well?" Mrs. Bundercombe snapped.
"It seems," I said, "that we were mistaken. That isn't Mr. Bundercombe at all."
Mrs. Bundercombe's face was a study.