A very black fellow, six feet tall, in a purple uniform ornamented with gold braid, guarded the door, but he bowed low as Lasca and Byron approached the entrance and waved them in. At the foot of the stairway, they were subjected to a second scrutiny through the bars of a window in the upper half of another door.
Mrs. Sartoris, come right in, the defender of the portal cried, and, as they accepted the invitation, he called out: Table for Mr. Gunnion!
A waiter took up the cry.
Come right this way, Mr. Gunnion, he urged, and led the pair to a table directly opposite the band.
Why Mr. Gunnion? Byron demanded of Lasca as they seated themselves.
She laughed and threw back her green velvet evening cloak embroidered in silver flowers.
That's part of the code here, she explained. If you're Mr. Gunnion it means that you're a good spender and a generally desirable customer, so you get the best available table. If you're Mr. Lomax, you're lucky if you even get in.
But they don't even know me! he protested.
You're with Mrs. Gunnion tonight.
