Bundercombe softly summoned the _maitre d'hotel_. It may have been my
fancy, but I certainly thought I saw a sovereign slipped into the hand of
the latter.
"Charles," Mr. Bundercombe confided, "my luncheon is being spoiled by
people who mistake me for a gentleman who, I believe, does bear a singular
resemblance to me. My name is Parker! This lady insists upon addressing me
as Mr. Bundercombe. I do not wish to make a disturbance, but I insist upon
it that you conduct this lady to her place and see that I am not disturbed
any more."
The _maitre d'hotel's_ attitude was unmistakable. Within the course of a
few seconds Mrs. Bundercombe was restored to us. I thought it best to
ignore the whole matter and plunged at once into a discussion of
gastronomic matters. "I have ordered," I began, "some Maryland chicken."
"Then you can eat it!" Mrs. Bundercombe snapped. "Not a mouthful of food
do I take in this place with that painted hussy sitting by Joseph's side a
few feet away! Oh, I'll fix him when I get him home!"
She drew a little breath between her teeth, but she was as good as her
word. She refused all food and sat with her arms folded, glaring across at
Mr. Bundercombe's table. My admiration for that man of genius was never
greater than on that day.
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