"Look here," he began, "I want so and so--" he named a dish that was
unknown to the companion of the young clerk. She felt a certain
respect of him for that. Her friend had ordered the most ordinary
of food and had tried to do it in a lordly manner. There was no
lordliness about Traill. He wasted no time with a waiter; he had never
met a German waiter who was worth it. All this gave the impression
of brusqueness. The girl liked it. She looked at her friend and wished
she was dining with Traill. But Traill took no notice of her. Except
an occasional glance, he ignored them both. As soon as he could, he
ordered an evening paper and sat concealed behind it--truly British
in every outline. The music in the place was good, but no music
appealed to him. It came as a confused wreckage of sounds to his ears
as he read through the news of the evening; and when the girl rattled
her spoon on the coffee cup and the young man clapped his hands
vigorously at the conclusion of a selection, he looked over the top
of his paper with annoyance. What music had ever penetrated his
understanding of the art, had come in the form of chants of psalms
and old hymn tunes, which a constant attendance at church in his youth
had dinned into him--the driving of soft iron nails into the stern
oak.
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