"
"Ah, indeed," said the man in military blue, with a courtier's bow.
Both air and accent were French. "Most welcome."
"Let's all have a drink," cried Heywood. Despite his many glasses at
dinner, he spoke with the alacrity of a new idea. "O Boy, whiskey
_Ho-lan suey, fai di_!"
Away bounded the boy marker like a tennis-ball.
"Hello, Wutzler's off already!"--The little old reader had quietly
disappeared, leaving them a vacant table.--"Isn't he weird?" laughed
Heywood, as they sat down. "Comes and goes like a ghost."
"It is his Chinese wife," declared Chantel, preening his moustache. "He
is always ashame to meet the new persons."
"Poor old chap," said Heywood. "I know--feels himself an outcast and all
that. Humph! With us! Quite unnecessary."--The Chinese page, quick,
solemn, and noiseless, glided round the table with his tray.--"Ah, you
young devil! You're another weird one, you atom. See those bead eyes
watching us, eh? A Gilpin Homer, you are, and some fine day we'll see
you go off in a flash of fire. If you don't poison us all first.--Well,
here's fortune!"
"Your health, Mr. Hackh," amended the other Englishman.
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