“I want you to keep me for to-night,” he whispered in his ear, “the little pink room; I shall be coming to dine there about eight o’clock with some swell clients; put on a man who can hold his tongue to wait.”
The restaurant keeper bowed respectfully.
“You can trust to me, Monsieur Moche, you shall have what you want, and you shan’t be disturbed. Anyway, the season’s drawing to a close and we’re hardly serving any more dinners in private rooms; you may count on having the whole floor practically to yourselves.”
The old fellow was entirely satisfied by what he heard, and at once took his departure, striding fast along the streets and whistling a cheerful march tune.
“Dress-coat, smoking jacket? what is monsieur going to wear this evening?”
“Neither, John; lay out my lounge coat.”
“You are not going out then, sir, and you have not anybody asked to dinner?”
Mr. Ascott stopped in the middle of arranging his tie; and turning to his man, said sharply:
“I am not dining at home, and I ask you for my lounge coat, that’s all.”
John, while obeying orders, still wore a scandalized air: