The waitress appeared with a cup of coffee, a plate piled high with thick slices of toast on which chunks of butter were still melting, another plate with two oranges, and a third containing two rashers of coarse bacon. With the grieved air of a person determined to do her duty in the face of all rebuffs she silently grouped this food about me.
"What will you have, Mr. Knowlton?" There was just a faint emphasis upon the "you."
"Thanks, you can bring me a steak, some German fried potatoes, a couple of soft-boiled eggs, and some griddle cakes."
"Do you want black coffee too?" she asked with meaning.
"No, make mine half milk, and bring along another plate of rolls."
"Sure!" remarked the waitress cheerfully and vanished.
"And how did she know your name?" I asked, realizing it was quite useless to question Knowlton about his theory of a hot weather diet.
"Oh, she asked the clerk, I guess. It's good business to always call customers by name. Makes 'em feel at home."
I looked around the room again and inwardly decided that something more than that simple and naïve process would be needed in my case.
"They mean well," Knowlton went on, with his disconcerting habit of reading my thoughts, "but they don't always know how. Now, you're used to thinking of a girl like that as a servant. She isn't. She thinks she's as good as you are, and I guess there's something in that too. You treat her all right and she'll treat you the same. But don't pull any of that European stuff here. They don't know what it means."