Rodrigo was quite happy. His ripening friendship with Dorning, the new clean life into which every minute of the ship's progress was carrying him, the cool, damp darkness that surrounded him, added to his content. He snapped his cigarette into the Mediterranean and with a peaceful sigh walked into the crowded, brilliantly lighted saloon in search of his friend.
The waiter was standing expectantly at Dorning's table, while Dorning, menu card in hand, was looking about for Rodrigo. Another man sat at the table with the American, a small, nervous, middle-aged man, who was also fingering a menu.
"I feared you had changed your mind and leaped overboard or something," Dorning smiled as Rodrigo approached. "I want you to meet Mr. Mark Rosner, Rodrigo. Mr. Rosner—Count Torriani." Rodrigo bowed and slid into his place at the table.
"Mr. Rosner is an old friend of my father's," Dorning explained. "We met by chance at the door of the saloon."
Rosner elaborated upon the explanation in a rapid, clipped voice. "I worked for Dorning and Son for a long time, Count Torriani. I left them five years ago to open a shop of my own in London. I did rather well, but you know how it is—once an American, always an American. There is no town in the world like New York. I sold out my place in London six months ago. Since then I have been traveling in Italy acquiring a stock, and I am on my way back to New York to go into business there."
He directed his conversation toward Rodrigo, evidently awed a bit by the young Italian's title and reserved manner and anxious to make an impression. Mark Rosner was a rare Jewish type, an impractical æsthete who disliked business life intensely but who nevertheless was consumed by the urge to make money. The struggle had whitened his mop of unruly hair prematurely, stooped his fat shoulders, and worn his nerves to ragged edges. The truth was that his London venture had been a failure and his new stock had been bought in Italy on borrowed capital. His delight at meeting John Dorning again had been partly caused by genuine pleasure at coming upon the son of a man he had always liked and admired and partly by the thought that he might derive aid later from the Dornings in getting started in New York.
"Count Torriani is to become associated with us in New York," Dorning remarked when the waiter had departed with the three orders. Dorning, now that Rodrigo had arrived, would rather the third party were not present. He remembered Rosner as a valuable employee, but as one who was always timid in taking responsibility and evasive and whining when things went badly. However, he was too kind-hearted to snub the fellow.
Rosner replied in his jerky voice, "Really? You couldn't join a concern with a finer reputation, Count Torriani. Dorning and Son are the leaders in their line in New York, as you probably know. Sometimes I wish I had never left your father, John." Dorning secretly smiled at Rosner's sudden familiarity. "But you know how it is—there is a certain satisfaction in being on your own, in spite of the risk involved."
He went on to relate in considerable detail the difficulties that had beset his venture in London. In the midst of his recital the food arrived. Rodrigo and John Dorning, who were hungry and bored, fell to at once and heard only snatches of the remainder of Rosner's querulous discourse. Englishmen of the art world, according to Rosner, were prejudiced against Americans in the same line of business, particularly Americans of Semitic extraction. He gave instances of alleged discriminations against him.
"I don't suppose, though, that it's much different in New York," Rosner admitted. "I remember many of the old-line concerns were against foreigners there too, and I don't suppose it has changed much. I recall how Henry Madison opposed your father's taking on that Italian sculptor, Rinaldi, and how pleased he was when the chap fell down and had to be let out. You were there then, weren't you, John?"