[Illustration:  “One whole box for a sovereign English.”]

After dinner, where he takes a dozen orders, makes a dozen recommendations, and tells a dozen lies at once, you may see him philandering by the Lake with MARY ANN, JEANETTE, and KLARA, all jealous, and all adoring, teaching each the language of the other, and all the art of love.  I have often envied him.  The Head-Waiter’s life is a “happy one.”  He is ubiquitous; Egypt, The Riviera, Switzerland, and Italy, see him by turns; in each he has a white waistcoat, of which Mr. CHAMBERLAIN might be proud, infinite occupation, and infinite diversion; his nimbleness, his light-heartedness, his languages, and his cigars, are inexhaustible.

How we besiege him in the morning!  “Luncheon, ADOLF, for a party of seven, in a basket—­a nice basket, you know—­and don’t forget the corkscrew.”  “Yes, yes, I know—­and you take the bottle-bier—­it is much better nor the warne.  Ha!  Ha!” What a laugh!—­a roguish, child-like merriment of a Greek-godlike character—­or want of it.  Old Ladies talk to him quite trustingly at first sight; it’s “ADOLF, have you such a thing as a bottle of gum—­gummi, gum, you understand”; or, “Could you get me another cushion”?  He can, and does.  As for the children, they love him; he romps with them, and does conjuring tricks, and warbles innumerable songs.  That man gets through more in one day than the Prime Minister of England—­and, between you and me, I believe he is fully as capable—­and yet he finds time to write a letter to his old mother at Hamburg—­I have seen him do it.  Perhaps it was about the cigars!  The only people who hate ADOLF are the Under-Waiters; he rules them with a rod of iron, marshalling their heated battalions at table d’hote, and plundering them of their sweethearts; if he breaks anything (hearts included), it is they who have to pay.  It is ADOLF’s only weakness—­he is a bully to underlings of his own trade.  But then he has been an Under-Waiter once himself, and suffering brutalises; however, he is outside the sphere of morality, and I could pardon him almost anything.

From time to time his fascinations induce an Englishman or Englishwoman to take this treasure home as a servant.  But ADOLF in livery, and ADOLF with his magic order-book, are two very different people.  Little things are missing; he becomes quarrelsome; the gipsy-spirit returns—­and he is off again, blithe as ever, on his travels.  “London very naice,” he says, as you buy that infernal Pestarena; “Porebier, very naise; ’Ampton Court, very naise; I know dem, hein?  But, is no sunshine, no air, no gaiety.”  And ADOLF cannot exist without sunshine, air, and gaiety.  Also he prefers being his own master, which, as Head-Waiter, he practically is.