"Say," he shouted as he rushed from behind his desk, "what do you think this joint is?—a joint!"
"I think what I please, Marculescu," Milton said, "and you should tell Volkovisk to play something decent. Also you should bring us two quarts from the best Tchampanyer wine—from French wine Tchampanyer, not Amerikanischer."
He waved his hand impatiently and three waiters—half of Marculescu's entire staff—came on the jump; so that, a moment later, Jassy and his guests were divested of their wraps and seated at one of the largest tables facing the piano. It was not until then that Milton descried Max Merech hovering round the door.
"Merech!" he called. "Kommen sie 'r über!"
Max shook his head shyly and half-opened the door, but Elkan forestalled him. He fairly bounded from the table and caught his assistant cutter by the arm just as he was disappearing on to the sidewalk.
"Max," he said, "what's the matter with you? Ain't you coming in to meet my wife?"
Max shrugged in embarrassment.
"You don't want me to butt into your party, Mr. Lubliner!" he said.
"Listen, Max," Elkan almost pleaded; "not only do I want you to, but you would be doing me a big favour if you would come in and join us. Also, Max, I am going to introduce you as our designer. You ain't got no objections?"
"Not at all," Max replied, and he followed his employer into the café.