Sebastian nodded in answer to Barlasch's somewhat ceremonious bow, and by a gesture invited him to be seated on the chair upon which he had already laid his hand. The atmosphere of the room was warm, and Barlasch laid aside his sheepskin coat, as he had seen the great and the rich divest themselves of their sables. He turned sharply and caught the waitress with an amused smile still on her face. He drew her attention to a little pool of beer on the table, and stood until she had made good this lapse in her duty. Then he pointed to Sebastian's mug of beer and dismissed her giggling, to get one for him of the same size and contents.
Making sure that there was no one within earshot, he waited until Sebastian's dreamy eye met his, and then said—
“It is time we understood each other.”
A light of surprise—passing and half-indifferent—flashed into Sebastian's eyes and vanished again at once when he saw Barlasch had meant nothing: made no sign or countersign with his hand.
“By all means, my friend,” he answered.
“I delivered your letters,” said Barlasch, “at Thorn and at the other places.”
“I know; I have already had answers. You would be wise to forget the incident.”
Barlasch shrugged his shoulders.
“You were paid,” said Sebastian, jumping to a natural conclusion.
“A little,” admitted Barlasch, “a small little—but it was not that. I always get paid in advance, when I can. Except by the Emperor. He owes me some—that citizen. It was another question. In the house I am friends with all—with Lisa who has gone—with Mademoiselle Mathilde who has gone—with Mademoiselle Desiree, so-called Madame Darragon, who remains. With all except you. Why should we not be friends?”