Let's go where there's some life. I'll take you. My lunch. Come
along."
Mr. Waddington protested but faintly. He murmured a word of apology to
the _maitre d'hotel_, whom he knew, but Burton had already gone on ahead
and was whistling for a taxi. With a groan, Mr. Waddington noticed
that his hat had slipped a little on one side. There was a distinct
return of his rakish manner.
"The _Milan!_" Burton ordered. "Get along as quick as you can. We are
hungry."
The two men sat side by side in the taxicab. Mr. Waddington watched
his companion in half-pained eagerness. Burton certainly was looking
much more alert than earlier in the morning.
"I tell you money's a great thing," the latter went on, producing a
cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "I don't know why I should
have worried about this little business adventure. I call it a
first-class idea. I'd like to be able to take taxies whenever I wanted
them, and go round to the big restaurants and sit and watch the people.
Come to a music-hall one night, Mr. Waddington, won't you? I haven't
seen anything really funny for a long time."
"I'm afraid I should like to," Mr. Waddington began,--"I mean I should
be delighted."
"What are you afraid about?" Burton asked quickly.
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