"So?"
"A friend of the grand duke, a friend of her serene highness, liked everywhere, a fine shot and a great fencer, and rides a horse as if he were sewn to the saddle. And all the ladies admire him because he dances."
"So he dances? Quite a lady's man." To Grumbach a man who danced was a lady's man, something to be held in contempt.
"You would not call him a lady's man, if you mean he wastes his time on them."
"But you say he dances?"
"Ach, Gott! Don't we all dance to some tune or other?" cried the waiter philosophically.
"You are right; different music, different jigs. Take the coppers."
"Thanks, Herr." The waiter continued his work.
So Herr Carmichael lived here. That would be convenient. Grumbach decided to wait for him. He had seen enough of men to know if he could trust the consul. He glared at the amber-gold in the glass, took a vigorous swallow, and smacked his lips. A sentimental old fool; he was neither more nor less.
The wait for Carmichael was short. The American consul came along with energetic stride. He had been to the earlier maneuvers, and aside from coffee and bacon he had had no breakfast. The ride and the cold air of morning had made him ravenous. Grumbach rose and caught Carmichael by the arm.