From where he stood he could see the girl of the red-gold hair.  Her back was towards him, and she was sitting at a table against one of the pillars with a little man with eye-glasses, a handsome woman in the forties, and a small stout boy who was skirmishing with the olives.  As Jimmy hesitated, the vigilant head-waiter, who knew him well, perceived him, and hurried up.

“In one moment, Mister Crockaire!” he said, and began to scatter commands among the underlings.  “I will place a table for you in the aisle.”

“Next to that pillar, please,” said Jimmy.

The underlings had produced a small table—­apparently from up their sleeves, and were draping it in a cloth.  Jimmy sat down and gave his order.  Ordering was going on at the other table.  The little man seemed depressed at the discovery that corn on the cob and soft-shelled crabs were not to be obtained, and his wife’s reception of the news that clams were not included in the Regent’s bill-of-fare was so indignant that one would have said that she regarded the fact as evidence that Great Britain was going to pieces and would shortly lose her place as a world power.

A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struck up “My Little Grey Home in the West,” and no attempt was made to compete with it.  When the last lingering strains had died away and the violinist-leader, having straightened out the kinks in his person which the rendition of the melody never failed to produce, had bowed for the last time, a clear, musical voice spoke from the other side of the pillar.

“Jimmy Crocker is a WORM!”

Jimmy spilled his cocktail.  It might have been the voice of Conscience.

“I despise him more than any one on earth.  I hate to think that he’s an American.”

Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly to make sure of them, partly as a restorative.  It is an unnerving thing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you have just saved.  To Jimmy it was not only unnerving; it was uncanny.  This girl had not known him when they met on the street a few moments before.  How then was she able to display such intimate acquaintance with his character now as to describe him—­justly enough—­as a worm?  Mingled with the mystery of the thing was its pathos.  The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this one and yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmy had ever come across.  It was like one of those Things Which Make Me Weep In This Great City so dear to the hearts of the sob-writers of his late newspaper.

A waiter bustled up with a high-ball.  Jimmy thanked him with his eyes.  He needed it.  He raised it to his lips.

“He’s always drinking—­”

He set it down hurriedly.

“—­and making a disgraceful exhibition of himself in public!  I always think Jimmy Crocker—­”