“It’s all right,” announced the warden of the grille, his suspicions to all seeming completely allayed.  “Mr. Penfield ain’t in just at present, but”—­here he grinned shrewdly—­“I reckon you ain’t so dead set on seein’ him as you made out.”

“On the contrary,” P. Sybarite retorted stiffly, “my business is immediate and personal with Mr. Penfield.  I will wait.”

“Sure.”  Into the accents of the other there crept magically a trace of geniality.  “Will you go right on up, or would you like a bite of somethin’ to eat first?”

At the mere hint of food, a frightful pang of hunger transfixed P. Sybarite.  He winked furtively, afraid to trust Iris tongue to speech.

“What d’ya say?” insinuated the doorkeeper.  “Just a bit of a snack, eh?  Say a caviare sandwich and a thimbleful of the grape?”

Abandoning false pride, P. Sybarite yielded: 

“I don’t mind if I do, thank you.”

“Straight on back; Pete’ll take care of you, all right.”

A thumb indicated the door in the rear of the hall.  Thither P. Sybarite betook himself on the instant, spurred by the demands of an appetite insatiable once it had won recognition.

He found the back room one of good proportions:  whatever the architect’s original intention, now serving as a combined lounge and grill, richly and comfortably furnished in sober, masculine fashion, boasting in all three buffets set forth with a lavish display of food and drink.  In one of many deeply upholstered club chairs a gentleman of mature years and heavy body, with a scarlet face and a crumpled, wine-stained shirt-bosom, was slumbering serenely, two-thirds of an extravagant cigar cold between his fingers.  In others two young men were confabulating quietly but with a most dissipated air, heads together over a brace of glasses.  At a corner service table a negro in a white jacket was busy with a silver chafing-dish which exhaled a tantalising aroma.  This last, at the entrance of P. Sybarite, glanced quickly over his shoulder, and seeing a strange face, clapped the cover on the steaming chafing-dish and discovered a round black countenance bisected by a complete mouthful of the most brilliant teeth imaginable.

“Yas-suh—­comin’!” he gabbled cheerfully.  “It’s sho’ a pleasure to see yo’ again.”

“At least,” suggested P. Sybarite, dropping into a chair, “it will be, next time.”

“Tha’s right, suh—­that’s the troof!” The negro placed a small table adjacent to his elbow.  “Tha’s what Ah allus says to strange gemmun, fust time they comes hyeh, suh; makes ’em feel more at home like.  Jus’ lemme know what Ah kin do for yo’ to-night.  That ’ere lobstuh Newburg’s jus’ about prime fo’ eatin’ this very minute, ef yo’ feel a bit peckish.”

“I do,” P. Sybarite admitted.  “Just a spoonful—­”

“An’ uh lil drink, suh?  Jus’ one lil innercent cocktail to fix yo’ mouf right?”

“If you insist, Pete—­if you insist.”