“But yes.” The Maître d’hôtel wormed his way into the Palm Room and beckoned to Burnham to follow. “There, in that corner across the room; this way,” and he darted among the tables and the palms, Burnham following closely, until he reached a small table set for two persons, and pulled out the unoccupied chair.
Palmer looked up from the menu he was studying and greeted Burnham with warmth.
“Have a Martini?” he inquired as their waiter hurried up and the Maître d’hôtel went back to his post in the doorway.
“Yes, and make it dry,” cautioned Burnham to the waiter. “And hurry it along. I am worn out,” he added to his host.
Palmer glanced at him in concern. “You don’t look very fit,” he admitted. “Had a bad trip down?”
“Devilish! Our train was sidetracked for hours waiting to let troop trains pass; nothing to eat——” Burnham paused to empty his glass of ice water. “At our rate of progress I was willing to believe we’d gone back to stage-coach days, but Washington is an eye-opener; I had no idea this place swarmed with people.”
“Washington’s ‘sleepy hollow’ has had a rude awakening,” remarked Palmer cynically. “I don’t mind confessing I am weary of seeing consequential looking people dash about Washington with an air of having arrived just in time to save the Nation. Washington was on the map before Uncle Sam started on this war-path.”
Burnham laughed. “I confess I share your outraged feelings; had to wait interminably at the Union Station before I could telephone you.” He stopped to take the cocktail at that instant placed before him. “Here’s how!”
His host raised his glass in acknowledgment and sipped his Martini with due enjoyment.
“Better have another,” he suggested as Burnham set down his empty glass, “against the time Washington goes dry.”