“Well, you’re coming on,” said Archie.  “I’ll admit that.  You’ve still got a bit of a way to go before you become like one of those blighters who take the Memory Training Courses in the magazine advertisements—­I mean to say, you know, the lads who meet a fellow once for five minutes, and then come across him again ten years later and grasp him by the hand and say, ’Surely this is Mr. Watkins of Seattle?’ Still, you’re doing fine.  You only need patience.  Everything comes to him who waits.”  Archie sat up, electrified.  “I say, by Jove, that’s rather good, what!  Everything comes to him who waits, and you’re a waiter, what, what.  I mean to say, what!”

“Mummie,” said the child at the other table, still speculative, “do you think something trod on his face?”

“Hush, darling.”

“Perhaps it was bitten by something?”

“Eat your nice fish, darling,” said the mother, who seemed to be one of those dull-witted persons whom it is impossible to interest in a discussion on first causes.

Archie felt stimulated.  Not even the advent of his father-in-law, who came in a few moments later and sat down at the other end of the room, could depress his spirits.

The Sausage Chappie came to his table again.

“It’s a funny thing,” he said.  “Like waking up after you’ve been asleep.  Everything seems to be getting clearer.  The dog’s name was Marie.  My wife’s dog, you know.  And she had a mole on her chin.”

“The dog?”

“No.  My wife.  Little beast!  She bit me in the leg once.”

“Your wife?”

“No.  The dog.  Good Lord!” said the Sausage Chappie.

Archie looked up and followed his gaze.

A couple of tables away, next to a sideboard on which the management exposed for view the cold meats and puddings and pies mentioned in volume two of the bill of fare ("Buffet Froid"), a man and a girl had just seated themselves.  The man was stout and middle-aged.  He bulged in practically every place in which a man can bulge, and his head was almost entirely free from hair.  The girl was young and pretty.  Her eyes were blue.  Her hair was brown.  She had a rather attractive little mole on the left side of her chin.

“Good Lord!” said the Sausage Chappie.

“Now what?” said Archie.

“Who’s that?  Over at the table there?”

Archie, through long attendance at the Cosmopolis Grill, knew most of the habitues by sight.

“That’s a man named Gossett.  James J. Gossett.  He’s a motion-picture man.  You must have seen his name around.”

“I don’t mean him.  Who’s the girl?”

“I’ve never seen her before.”

“It’s my wife!” said the Sausage Chappie.

“Your wife!”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“Well, well, well!” said Archie.  “Many happy returns of the day!”

At the other table, the girl, unconscious of the drama which was about to enter her life, was engrossed in conversation with the stout man.  And at this moment the stout man leaned forward and patted her on the cheek.