bright, dark eyes swept our table with a frank, almost childish,
familiarity. The younger members of the Club quite unconsciously pulled
up their collars and settled their neckties; the elders as unconsciously
raised their voices slightly, and somewhat arranged their sentences.
Alas! the simplicity and unaffectedness of the Club were again invaded.

Suddenly there was a crash, the breaking of glass, and an exclamation.
Tournelli, no doubt disorganized by the unusual hurry, on his way to our
table had dropped his tray, impartially distributed a plate of
asparagus over an adjoining table, and, flushed and nervous, yet with
an affectation of studied calmness, was pouring the sauce into the young
Quartermaster's plate, in spite of his languid protests. At any other
time we would have laughed, but there was something in the exaggerated
agitation of the Italian that checked our mirth. Why should he be so
upset by a trifling accident? He could afford to pay for the breakage;
he would laugh at dismissal. Was it the sensitiveness of a refined
nature, or--he was young and good-looking--was he disconcerted by the
fact that our handsome neighbor had witnessed his awkwardness? But she
was not laughing, and, as far as I could see, was intently regarding the
bill of fare.

"Waiter!" called her companion, hailing Tournelli. "Here!" The Italian,
with a face now distinctly white, leaned over the table, adjusting the
glasses, but did not reply.

"Waiter!" repeated the stranger, sharply. Tournelli's face twitched,
then became set as a mask; but he did not move. The stranger leaned
forward and pulled his apron from behind. Tournelli started with
flashing eyes, and turned swiftly round. But the Quartermaster's hand
had closed on his wrist.

"That's my knife, Tournelli."

The knife dropped from the Italian's fingers.

"Better see WHAT he wants. It may not be THAT," said the young officer,
coolly but kindly.

Tournelli turned impatiently towards the stranger. We alone had
witnessed this incident, and were watching him breathlessly. Yet what
bade fair a moment ago to be a tragedy, seemed now to halt grotesquely.
For Tournelli, throwing open his linen jacket with a melodramatic
gesture, tapped his breast, and with flashing eyes and suppressed
accents said, "Sare; you wantah me? Look--I am herre!"

The speculator leaned back in his chair in good-humored astonishment.
The lady's black eyes, without looking at Tournelli, glanced backward