Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at ’Tonio’s:
“A dinner at ’Tonio’s,” said a Bohemian, “always amounts to twice the price that is asked for it.”
Let us assume that an accommodating voice inquires:
“How so?”
“The dinner costs you 40 cents; you give 10 cents to the waiter, and it makes you feel like 30 cents.”
Most of the diners were confirmed table d’hôters—gastronomic adventurers, forever seeking the El Dorado of a good claret, and consistently coming to grief in California.
Mr. Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered with shrubbery in tubs, and asked her to excuse him for a while.
Katy sat, enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her. The grand ladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling rings; the fine gentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries of “Garsong!” and “We, monseer,” and “Hello, Mame!” that distinguish Bohemia; the lively chatter, the cigarette smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and eye-glances—all this display and magnificence overpowered the daughter of Mrs. Dempsey and held her motionless.
Mr. Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile and bow over the entire company. And everywhere there was a great clapping of hands
[214]
