But Simpson only stooped and picked up his pad.
"Mr. Rockwell," he said, "I know my place. It is a very humble one. It is to take orders--for meals, to be served in this hotel. So long as that is what you want I am yours to command. But"--the American citizen stood up in him; no European waiter could have said it--"outside of that I am my own master as much as you are. When you call me 'Mr. Simpson' and tell me to sit down, I don't have to do it. And I don't have to talk of my personal affairs unless I choose, any more than any one else!"
For an instant he glared at Rockwell as one angry man at another, his equal. Then he quietly became the waiter again. He lifted his pad and poised his pencil:
"Shall we say some ham?"
Rockwell looked at him a moment longer. Then he laughed: "Ham let it be!"
"Yes, sir," said Simpson, deferentially writing. "And some baked potatoes, perhaps? And coffee?"
"Yes," said Rockwell, "and the telephone book. Hand me the telephone book, please."
Simpson hesitated, but this was clearly within the line of his duties.
"Yes, sir," he said, and stepped towards the stand on which the book lay.
"Wait!" said Rockwell. "Perhaps it isn't necessary. I think you can tell me the number I want."