like rain,” two minutes afterward, he would reply, “No, sir.”  It was one member who said Lightning Rod would win the Derby and another who said Lightning Rod had no chance, but it was William who agreed with both.  He was like a cheroot, which may be smoked from either end.  So used was I to him that, had he died or got another situation (or whatever it is such persons do when they disappear from the club), I should probably have told the head waiter to bring him back, as I disliked changes.

It would not become me to know precisely when I began to think William an ingrate, but I date his lapse from the evening when he brought me oysters.  I detest oysters, and no one knew it better than William.  He has agreed with me that he could not understand any gentleman’s liking them.  Between me and a certain member who smacks his lips twelve times to a dozen of them William knew I liked a screen to be placed until we had reached the soup, and yet he gave me the oysters and the other man my sardine.  Both the other member and I quickly called for brandy and the head waiter.  To do William justice, he shook, but never can I forget his audacious explanation:  “Beg pardon, sir, but I was thinking of something else.”

In these words William had flung off the mask, and now I knew him for what he was.

I must not be accused of bad form for looking at William on the following evening.  What prompted me to do so was not personal interest in him, but a desire to see whether I dare let him wait on me again.  So, recalling that a caster was off a chair yesterday, one is entitled to make sure that it is on to-day before sitting down.  If the expression is not too strong, I may say that I was taken aback by William’s manner.  Even when crossing the room to take my orders he let his one hand play nervously with the other.  I had to repeat “Sardine on toast” twice, and instead of answering “Yes, sir,” as if my selection of sardine on toast was a personal gratification to him, which is the manner one expects of a waiter, he glanced at the clock, then out at the window, and, starting, asked, “Did you say sardine on toast, sir?”

It was the height of summer, when London smells like a chemist’s shop, and he who has the dinner-table at the window needs no candles to show him his knife and fork.  I lay back at intervals, now watching a starved-looking woman sleep on a door-step, and again complaining of the club bananas.  By-and-by I saw a girl of the commonest kind, ill-clad and dirty, as all these Arabs are.  Their parents should be compelled to feed and clothe them comfortably, or at least to keep them indoors, where they cannot offend our eyes.  Such children are for pushing aside with one’s umbrella; but this girl I noticed because she was gazing at the club windows.  She had stood thus for perhaps ten minutes when I became aware that some one was leaning over me to look out at the window.  I turned round.  Conceive my indignation on seeing that the rude person was William.