She lifted a muff, a real sable affair, from a seat near by in order to free a chair. As Mame subsided into it with her politest thanks, the girl looked at her shrewdly and then said in a casual voice, “You want a waiter.”
Before Mame could take steps to get a waiter, her new friend, who was full of cheery competence, had attracted one. Her manner of doing so was in nowise aggressive, yet it was quite successful. The last word in waiters, all smiles and all ears, soon materialised at Mame’s elbows.
“I can recommend the crumpets. They’re very good to-day.” The girl followed her genial information with something in Italian or French to the waiter which Mame did not understand. It was probably Italian, for the waiter was an undoubted Wop. He crisply brushed the tablecloth with his napkin, arranged cup and saucer, knife and plate upon it, and then went smilingly off to execute Mame’s order.
“Some folks around,” said Mame conversationally.
“A regular beehive.” The girl had a slow, deep smile which at the sound of Mame’s voice began to grow.
“All the old-timers, I’ll say, from way back.”
At that remark the girl laughed outright, but in a way that was friendly. Mame felt encouraged to let her tongue run.
“Say, listen, who is the dame with the auburn wig and the Roman nose?”
“Ah, you mean the old dreadnought.” The meerschaum holder tactfully indicated the next table but one where the personage in question sat in state. “Eighty-five if an hour. Blind as a bat, deaf as a mole, but worth looking at, I always think.”
Mame’s laugh chimed with the girl’s. The old dreadnought, in a Victorian bonnet and mantle, with a nose standing off from a craggy face like a handle from a door, was a type. Mame was so much interested that she repeated her question.