“I’d better go slow the first day, Old Thing,” he said; “we’ll go to the Roma instead of the White Tower, and after lunch, if that little room’s empty, you shall play Brahms to me—especially the Little Valse.”
We mounted the stone stairway that takes you so unexpectedly to the restaurant. As soon as the manager saw Porritt he came fussing towards us.
“Ah, monsieur!” he exclaimed, delightedly; “you once more! Are you well? Yes?”
“Excessively. But how crowded you are!”
The manager gazed around at his cosmopolitan clients, and smiled reassuringly.
“There, in the corner—a table for two. True, it is engaged for somebody else, but you shall have it.”
He tangled fatly through the room, and, when at the table, turned about and smiled.
We sat down, and our guide handed a wine list to Porritt.
“It is some weeks since you were in Salonika?” he suggested, rather than asked.
“Yes; three. Very busy up-country. Very busy ... ve ... ry ... bu ... sy ...” Porritt’s eyes were among the champagnes.