“Three long, loud ones for you, young lady!” he soliloquized.  “You didn’t care to eat at the same table with the brown beggar; so you came to luncheon alone.”

As their glances met, there was in Farrel’s black eyes no hint of recognition, for he possessed in full measure all of the modesty and timidity of the most modest and timid race on earth where women are concerned—­the Irish—­tempered with the exquisite courtesy of that race for whom courtesy and gallantry toward woman are a tradition—­the Spanish of that all but extinct Californian caste known as the gente.

It pleased Farrel to pretend careful study of the menu.  Although his preferences in food were simple, he was extraordinarily hungry and knew exactly what he wanted.  For long months he had dreamed of a porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, and now, finding that appetizing viand listed on the menu, he ordered it without giving mature deliberation to the possible consequences of his act.  For the past two months he had been forced to avoid, when dining alone, meats served in such a manner as to necessitate firm and skilful manipulation of a knife—­and when the waiter served his steak, he discovered, to his embarrassment, that it was not particularly tender nor was his knife even reasonably sharp.  Consequently, following an unsatisfactory assault, he laid the knife aside and cast an anxious glance toward the kitchen, into which his waiter had disappeared; while awaiting the aid of this functionary, he hid his right hand under the table and gently massaged the back of it at a point where a vivid red scar showed.

He was aware that the girl was watching him, and, with the fascination peculiar to such a situation, he could not forbear a quick glance at her.  Interest and concern showed in the brown eyes, and she smiled frankly, as she said: 

“I very much fear, Mr. Ex-First Sergeant, that your steak constitutes an order you are unable to execute.  Perhaps you will not mind if I carve it for you.”

“Please do not bother about me!” he exclaimed.  “The waiter will be here presently.  You are very kind, but—­”

“Oh, I’m quite an expert in the gentle art of mothering military men.  I commanded a hot-cake-and-doughnut brigade in France.”  She reached across the little table and possessed herself of his plate.

“I’ll bet my last copeck you had good discipline, too,” he declared admiringly.  He could imagine the number of daring devils from whose amorous advances even a hot-cake queen was not immune.

“The recipe was absurdly simple:  No discipline, no hot-cakes.  And there were always a sufficient number of good fellows around to squelch anybody who tried to interfere with my efficiency.  By the way, I observed how hungrily you were looking out the window this morning.  Quite a change from Siberia, isn’t it?”

“How did you know I’d soldiered in Siberia?”

“You said you’d bet your last copeck.”