"Never have I heard such a thing in all my days," Ferrani assured them fervently. "Joseph is one of the most wonderful performers in the world. His control over his instrument is marvellous…. Captain Holderness asked particularly for this table."
They seated themselves at the table reserved for them against the wall. Their cicerone was withdrawing with a low bow, but Pamela leaned over to speak to him.
"Your music," she told him, "is quite wonderful. The orchestra consists entirely of Americans, I suppose?"
"Entirely, madam," Ferrani assented. "They are real Southern darkies, from Joseph, the leader, down to little Peter, who blows the motor-horn."
Pamela's interest in the matter remained unabated.
"I tell you it makes one feel almost homesick to hear them play," she went on, with a little sigh. "Did they come direct from the States?"
Ferrani shook his head.
"From Paris, madam. Before that, for a little time, they were at the Winter Garden in Berlin. They made quite a European tour of it before they arrived here."
"And he is the leader—the man whom you call Joseph," Pamela observed.
"A broad, good-humoured face—not much intelligence, I should imagine."
Ferrani's protest was vigorous and gesticulatory. He evidently had ideas of his own concerning Joseph.