“Queen of my soul,” said Archie enthusiastically, “it’s an omelette!”

The business negotiations in connection with the bracelet and the ring occupied Archie on his arrival in New York to an extent which made it impossible for him to call on Brother Bill before lunch.  He decided to postpone the affecting meeting of brothers-in-law to a more convenient season, and made his way to his favourite table at the Cosmopolis grill-room for a bite of lunch preliminary to the fatigues of the sale.  He found Salvatore hovering about as usual, and instructed him to come to the rescue with a minute steak.

Salvatore was the dark, sinister-looking waiter who attended, among other tables, to the one at the far end of the grill-room at which Archie usually sat.  For several weeks Archie’s conversations with the other had dealt exclusively with the bill of fare and its contents; but gradually he had found himself becoming more personal.  Even before the war and its democratising influences, Archie had always lacked that reserve which characterises many Britons; and since the war he had looked on nearly everyone he met as a brother.  Long since, through the medium of a series of friendly chats, he had heard all about Salvatore’s home in Italy, the little newspaper and tobacco shop which his mother owned down on Seventh Avenue, and a hundred other personal details.  Archie had an insatiable curiosity about his fellow-man.

“Well done,” said Archie.

“Sare?”

“The steak.  Not too rare, you know.”

“Very good, sare.”

Archie looked at the waiter closely.  His tone had been subdued and sad.  Of course, you don’t expect a waiter to beam all over his face and give three rousing cheers simply because you have asked him to bring you a minute steak, but still there was something about Salvatore’s manner that disturbed Archie.  The man appeared to have the pip.  Whether he was merely homesick and brooding on the lost delights of his sunny native land, or whether his trouble was more definite, could only be ascertained by enquiry.  So Archie enquired.

“What’s the matter, laddie?” he said sympathetically.  “Something on your mind?”

“Sare?”

“I say, there seems to be something on your mind.  What’s the trouble?”

The waiter shrugged his shoulders, as if indicating an unwillingness to inflict his grievances on one of the tipping classes.

“Come on!” persisted Archie encouragingly.  “All pals here.  Barge alone, old thing, and let’s have it.”

Salvatore, thus admonished, proceeded in a hurried undertone—­with one eye on the headwaiter—­to lay bare his soul.  What he said was not very coherent, but Archie could make out enough of it to gather that it was a sad story of excessive hours and insufficient pay.  He mused awhile.  The waiter’s hard case touched him.