"A capital idea, of which I heartily approve, but now that I am a waiting auditor, eager"—
"It's merely the check, if you please," she interrupted coldly. "My desk is closed, and the Room will refuse further patrons for the next hour, as the executive committee of the Shelley Society meets here at four o'clock and the Asolando is denied to outsiders."
"This, then, is my dismissal? The lady who joined me here for a time left a dollar, which, you will see, is somewhat in excess of her check. My own charge of fifty cents is so moderate that I cannot do less than leave a dollar also."
"Thank you," she replied, unshaken by my generosity. "The tips at the Asolando all go to the Sweetness and Light Club, which is just now engaged in circulating Matthew Arnold's poems in leaflet form in the jobbing district."
"I sympathize with that propaganda," I replied, gathering up my hat and stick, "and am delighted to contribute to its support. And now I dare say you would be glad to be rid of me. The Asolando has tolerated me longer than my slight purchases justified."
I bowed and had turned away, when she arrested me with the line,—
"My good blade carves the casques of men."
I turned toward her. Several of the waitresses were now engaged in rearranging the tables, but they seemed not to heed us.
"Permit me to inquire," she asked, "whether the lady who joined you here expressed any interest in the life beautiful as it is exemplified in the Asolando?"
"I am constrained to say that she did not. She spoke of the Asolando in the most contumelious terms."