"We're all agreed upon the table d'hôte," she said; and the Falstaffian negro shook himself free and backed into the vestibule. "What is its name? and when do we arrive?"
"I'll have to inquire," Mr. Vennor replied. "I'll go forward and have the conductor wire ahead for a separate table."
But Gertrude said: "Please don't; let's go with the crowd for once. I'm so tired of being always specialized."
The President's smile was suggestive of the metallic smirk on the face of a George-the-Fourth penny. "Just as you please," he rejoined; "but I'll go and find out when and where."
Now it chanced that at this precise moment Brockway had laid his hand on the Tadmor's door-knob preparatory to taking the plunge; and when he opened the door he found himself face to face with the President. Whereupon he fell back and lost the power of speech, while the incomer appraised him with his eyes and tried to remember where he had seen him before. Recognition brought with it a small frown of annoyance.
"Your name is Brockway, I believe," the President said.
"Ye-yes," Brockway stammered, being by no means so sure of it at the moment.
"H-m; and, if I remember correctly, you are an employee of this line?"
"I am." The passenger agent was beginning a little to recover his scattered store of self-possession.
"Very good. Possibly you can tell me what I want to know. What is the dinner station, and when do we reach it?"