"A table, sir?"
"You have one reserved for me. This right-hand one by the door."
"Ah, yes, of course, sir. This way, sir."
He turned toward the table. Over the heads of intervening diners, the dummy-chucker saw his host. The shaded lights upon the table at which the young man sat revealed, not too clearly yet well enough, the features of a girl.
"A lady!" said the dummy-chucker, under his breath. "The real thing!"
As he stood there, the girl raised her head. She did not look toward the dummy-chucker, could not see him. But he could see the proud line of her throat, the glory of her golden hair. And opposite her he could see the features of his host, could note how illy that shrewd nose and slit of a mouth consorted with the gentle face of the girl. And then, as the mâitre d'hôtel beckoned, he remembered that he had left the flask, the monogrammed flask, in his overcoat pocket.
"Just a moment," he said.
He turned and walked back toward the corner where was his coat. In the distance, he saw some one, approaching him, noted the free stride, the carriage of the head, the set of the shoulders. And then, suddenly, he saw that the "some one" was himself. The mirror was guilty of the illusion.
Once again he stood before it, admiring himself. He summoned the face of the girl who was sitting in the dining-room before his mental vision. And then he turned abruptly to the check-girl.
"I've changed my mind," he said. "My coat, please."