CHAPTER XVThe maître d’hôtel at the newest Berlin restaurant, which had the reputation of almost fantastic exclusiveness, was typically Teutonic. His fair hair had been shaved close to his skull, his fierce little yellow moustache was upturned in military fashion, his protuberant stomach interfered in no manner with his consequential, almost dignified, bearing. He scarcely troubled to reply to Fawley’s enquiry for a table.
“Every table is taken,” he announced, “for tonight and every night this week.”
“For the other evenings during the week,” Fawley replied, “I have no interest. Please to give the matter your attention. You had better glance at this card.”
The maître d’hôtel turned ponderously around. Fawley’s rather lazy voice, easily recognisable as American, notwithstanding his excell
