In the sudden light Simpson whirled with a startled and most unprofessional agility to face Rockwell.
"Good morning, Simpson."
The waiter fairly moistened his lips before he could answer.
"Good morning, Mr. Rockwell."
The man's face was certainly haggard. His eyes even were a trifle bloodshot. It was clear he had had a strange night. But after a moment of hostile confrontation the professional impassivity of a waiter--which is perhaps the ultimate perfection of sang froid--descended about him like a cloak and mask.
"I was sent to this room--Mr. Wilson's room, I understood--to take a breakfast order."
"Right, Simpson!" cried Merriam cheerily, emerging from the bathroom in his shirt sleeves.
For a moment the human gleamed again through the eyes of the functionary.
"Are you Mr. Wilson?" he asked. His manner was perfect servility, but there was mockery and malice in the tone.
"Yes, Simpson," said Merriam. "This morning I am Mr. Wilson. I have read of an English duke who puts on a new pair of trousers each morning. But I go him one better. I put on an entire new personality each morning."