And all the ladies admire him because he
dances."
"So he dances? Quite a lady's man." To Grumbach a man who danced was a
lady's man, something to be held in contempt.
"You would not call him a lady's man, if you mean he wastes his time on
them."
"But you say he dances?"
"_Ach, Gott!_ Don't we all dance to some tune or other?" cried the
waiter philosophically.
"You are right; different music, different jigs. Take the coppers."
"Thanks, Herr." The waiter continued his work.
So Herr Carmichael lived here. That would be convenient. Grumbach
decided to wait for him. He had seen enough of men to know if he could
trust the consul. He glared at the amber-gold in the glass, took a
vigorous swallow, and smacked his lips. A sentimental old fool; he was
neither more nor less.
The wait for Carmichael was short. The American consul came along with
energetic stride. He had been to the earlier maneuvers, and aside from
coffee and bacon he had had no breakfast. The ride and the cold air of
morning had made him ravenous. Grumbach rose and caught Carmichael by
the arm.
"Your pardon, sir," he said in good English, "but you are Mr.
Carmichael, the American consul?"
"I am."
"Will you kindly look over my papers?" Grumbach asked.
"You are from the United States?" Then Carmichael remembered that this
must be the compatriot who arrived the night before.
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