"Three long, loud ones for you, young lady!" he soliloquized. "You
didn't care to eat at the same table with the brown beggar; so you came
to luncheon alone."
As their glances met, there was in Farrel's black eyes no hint of
recognition, for he possessed in full measure all of the modesty and
timidity of the most modest and timid race on earth where women are
concerned--the Irish--tempered with the exquisite courtesy of that race
for whom courtesy and gallantry toward woman are a tradition--the
Spanish of that all but extinct Californian caste known as the _gente_.
It pleased Farrel to pretend careful study of the menu. Although his
preferences in food were simple, he was extraordinarily hungry and knew
exactly what he wanted. For long months he had dreamed of a
porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, and now, finding that
appetizing viand listed on the menu, he ordered it without giving
mature deliberation to the possible consequences of his act. For the
past two months he had been forced to avoid, when dining alone, meats
served in such a manner as to necessitate firm and skilful manipulation
of a knife--and when the waiter served his steak, he discovered, to his
embarrassment, that it was not particularly tender nor was his knife
even reasonably sharp. Consequently, following an unsatisfactory
assault, he laid the knife aside and cast an anxious glance toward the
kitchen, into which his waiter had disappeared; while awaiting the aid
of this functionary, he hid his right hand under the table and gently
massaged the back of it at a point where a vivid red scar showed.
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