The Gatto Fritte 127
I felt sure that the “ Sir’ would do the trick, and the
“'V.C., K.B.E.” could hardly fail to impress.
I’m not a bit of a snob; but I really was glad for
once to be of some sort of importance.
The clerk ran out of the room with the paper. He
came back in a moment, beaming all over, and called
the attention of the commissary to one of the morning
newspapers, running his finger along the lines with
suppressed excitement.
My spirits rose. Evidently some social paragraph
had identified us.
The commissary changed his manner at once. His
new tone was not exactly sympathetic and friendly, but
I put that down to the man’s plebeian origin.
He said something about ‘“ Consule,” and had us
conducted to an outer room. The clerk indicated that
we were to wait there—no doubt, for the arrival of
the consul.
It was not more than half an hour; but it seemed
an eternity. Lou and I had nothing to say to each
other. What we felt was a blind ache to get away from
these wretched people, to get back to the Caligula ;
to have a bath and a meal; and above all, to ease our
nerves with a good stiff dose of heroin and a few hearty
sniffs of cocaine.