"A policeman, you say, eh?"
"Yes; I certainly don't think he's fit to call on nice people. The next think we know father will have firemen and cab-drivers and street cleaners, I suppose. They're all in the same class to me—just servants."
"What precinct did he come from?"
Baxter's tone was more earnest than it had been.
Burke's face reddened at the girl's slur, but he continued his waiting game.
"Precinct? What's that? I don't know where he came from. He's a New York policeman, that's all I found out. It didn't interest me, why should it you? Oh, Mr. Baxter, look at that beautiful willow plume on that girl's hat. She is a silly-looking girl, but that is a wonderful hat."
Baxter grunted and seemed lost in thought.
Burke espied Jimmie the Monk meandering through the tables, in company with a heavy, smooth-faced man whose eyes were directed from even that distance toward the table at which Lorna sat.
Burke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, thus cutting off Jimmie's possible view of his features.
"Ah, Jimmie, back again. And I see you're with my old friend, Sam Shepard!"