Our neighbor had half risen from his place. He was leaning
toward us, apologetically intrusive.
"Excuse--permit me," he said softly. "I have been unable not to
hear. Might I take a liberty? In this little
restaurant-sans-facon--might I, as the phrase is, cut in?"
I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the
kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away
with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me,
commanding a full view of Soames.
"Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London
well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very
known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly
over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil."
I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing
to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing
volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised
eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back
aching; I behaved deplorably.
"I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I
was in the company of GENTLEMEN."
"Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!"
"Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There
is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so
awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien
needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud
laugh what speaks the vacant mind.
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