He was the type of the valet ennobled, a mask of incomparable vacuity, a secret smile that missed nothing, internal rather than outward, yet still chained to the servant's habit of picking up his feet.
Sassoon summoned him with a nod which Tenafly perceived instantly across the room.
"The little girl in yellow—who is she?"
The eye of the restaurateur passed vaguely over the company, but the instant sufficed to photograph each detail.
"She's new," he said, without moving his lips.
"She's not of the sextette?"
Tenafly shook his head.
"She's dined here—below—I've seen her!"
"Know her name?"
Tenafly searched the pigeonholes of his memory.