Orient Express was an hour late at Saint-Maurice. The waitress came over to Mr. Harris’s table. Mr. Harris had just finished dinner.
“The Express is an hour late, sir. Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If you like.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“All right,” said Mr. Harris.
“Thank you, sir,” said the waitress.
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Harris put sugar in it, crunched the lumps with his spoon, and looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, sir. I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Which do you like best?”
“They are all very much the same, sir. I can’t say I like one better than another.”
“Would you like a drink of something or a coffee?”
“Oh, no, sir, it is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“You wouldn’t take a cigar?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she laughed. “I don’t smoke, sir.”
“Neither do I,” said Harris, “I don’t agree with David Belasco.”
“Please?”
“Belasco. David Belasco. You can always tell him because he has his collar on backwards. But I don’t agree with him. Then, too, he’s dead now.”
“Will you excuse me, sir?” asked the waitress.
“Absolutely,” said Harris. He sat forward in the chair and looked out of the window. Across the room the old man had folded his paper. He looked at Mr. Harris and then picked up his coffee cup and saucer and walked to Harris’s table.
