I + 

It was just after Christmas when Signor Millo marched into Fabio’s shop one day and handed his card across the counter. + 

“This way, signore, this way!” exclaimed Fabio, pink to the brow with pleasure and excitement. And he took him into Teresa’s back parlor and pushed up the most propitious chair. + 

Signor Millo was a man of forty-five, of medium height and broad-shouldered. His brown hair curled close to his round, shapely head; there was something about him that suggested the antique⁠—perhaps the Roman arena. But his brow was intellectual, and his mouth rather grave. His eyes, dark and set very wide apart, had a wonderfully wise and benign expression as though they neither questioned nor condemned. Seeing him thus, as he sat in the armchair with his hat held loosely between his knees, was to wonder what manner of man this was. An athlete? An author? A philosopher, perhaps? As a matter of fact he was none of these things; he was Francesco Millo, the director of the Doric, which, thanks to his skill, to his excellent judgment and elegant epicurean palate, had risen in the last few years to great fame among the restaurants of London. + 

That he should have come in person to the Casa Boselli was quite on a par with the rest of the man. He might have sent several intelligent people, all well up in their professional duties, but instead he had preferred to call on Fabio himself⁠—such little excursions amused him. It is said that in each man there lurks the hunter; the hunter of money, the hunter of lions, the hunter of fame, the hunter of women; and Francesco Millo was also a hunter, as keen on the trail and as steadfast as any, indeed he was tireless, hence the fame of his restaurant, for Millo was a hunter of food. + 

He had said to himself at the beginning of his career: “There are three very vital things; quality, variety and originality, and the last is perhaps the most vital of the three. A dinner should have, like a book or a picture, good workmanship, plenty of light and shade, and above all that individual touch, that original central idea.” + 

And so, whenever the spirit moved him⁠—which was often, for he was a restless man⁠—Millo went forth in search of strange viands. Just now he was after some special funghi that grew in the woods not far from Turin. As luck would have it he had heard from a confrère that the Casa Boselli had but lately imported a case of those special funghi. + 

“Ma sicuro,” said Fabio, “we certainly keep them; they are fat, good funghi, you may see for yourself, you may smell them.” And he fetched a terrific looking toadstool for the great man’s careful inspection. + 

Millo sniffed it. “It is prime, as you say,” he remarked, and he promptly bought the whole case. “And now I will look at your stock, if you please; I would also like to see your price-list.” + 

Fabio was trembling with excitement by now⁠—the Casa Boselli and Millo. What a happening to make Nerone more jealous! What a snub for the Signora Rocca! He pottered about showing first this, then that, his paste, his hams, his tomatoes; then those elegant, more highly-specialized foods, caviar in jars, carciofini in oil, tunnyfish, fillets of anchovies with capers, and large, green, globular snails. + 

“All excellent, fresh, and quite inexpensive!” he kept chanting in a kind of litany. “All excellent, fresh, and quite inexpensive⁠—and we keep a great variety of foodstuffs.” + 

Signor Millo stood still, and surveyed him gravely. “I would speak,” he said, holding up his hand. + 

“Prego!” bowed Fabio, trembling more than ever in case he had talked too much. + 

“I am rather disposed to give you some orders, your shop is so excellently kept; I think also that there must be someone here who has an enterprising mind. If you get my custom, of course you are made, for I never stint recommendations; but, and this is important, so I beg that you listen, the first time you fail me I break you, signore. If ever you should send me a thing that is not fresh, a thing that could injure the stomach of a client, that day I write round to my confrères and tell them⁠—I cancel my recommendations, signore; and such is my system of management.” + 

Fabio bowed low; he was longing intensely for the reassuring presence of Teresa, but Teresa had unfortunately gone to the Capo to call on the Padrona that afternoon. + 

“It shall be as you say, I am honored,” babbled Fabio. “You shall have no cause for complaint.” + 

At that moment, Gian-Luca strolled in at the door, and seeing the stranger, paused. He looked very tall in the little shop as he towered over Fabio and Millo. His neat blue serge suit became him well⁠—it had not been bought secondhand, for Gian-Luca was particular about his clothes, and when in mufti he dressed with great care, he was even a little foppish. Standing there young, fair-haired and alert, there was something incongruous about him, something that seemed to set him apart from the salumeria in Old Compton Street, from Fabio, from Millo even. + 

“This is my grandson,” Fabio explained; “he is a waiter at the Capo di Monte.” Millo bowed slightly. “Piacere,” he murmured, as though he were thinking of something quite different; as a matter of fact he was all attention and his mind was working very quickly. + 

If Francesco Millo had a palate for good food, he had also an eye for a waiter; those who served were as carefully chosen by him as the dishes they were privileged to handle. Moreover, he prided himself on his flair. “I know in a moment,” he was wont to say proudly; “I know the moment my eye rests upon them. It amounts to a psychic faculty with me: I can pick the good waiter out of a thousand; the waiter is born and not made.” His eyes took in every line of Gian-Luca, without appearing to do so. “He is mine!” he was thinking, with that thrill of satisfaction that belongs to the ardent collector. “As it happens,” he said casually, turning to Fabio, “I am wanting a waiter next month; now if your grandson is free I might try him⁠—I suppose he has had some experience?” + 

“He has had three years at the Capo,” Fabio told him. + 

“That says nothing to me,” smiled Millo. + 

“The Capo di Monte in Dean Street, signore.” + 

“I have never heard of the place.” Then after a minute: + 

“But that need not matter, no doubt it serves some sort of meals. Perhaps you will give me the name of the Padrone so that I may take up your grandson’s reference; he will get a good reference, I think.” + 

All this time Gian-Luca had not opened his mouth, nor had he once been consulted; now, however, Millo turned and addressed him directly. + 

“If your reference is good, as I think it will be, you may come on the morning of the twentieth, side-door, 9:30. I will let you know when I hear from your Padrone, so that you may order yourself a dress-suit.” He scribbled an address on a leaf from his notebook: “This is the tailor who makes for the Doric, he will know how I wish your dress-suit to be made, he will also tell you what else is required. As for terms⁠—they depend entirely on yourself; I pay high, but only for good service. You will not be dependent upon your tips, everyone at the Doric receives a salary⁠—I cannot stop to go into that now, I will speak to you when you come on the twentieth. If you prove satisfactory you will not complain of my terms; if you prove unsatisfactory there will not be any terms, for you go⁠—we will try you and see. I think that is all⁠—oh, do you speak English?” + 

“I do, Signore,” said Gian-Luca promptly, but before he could get in another word, the great one was leaving the shop. + 

“Dio mio!” breathed Fabio. “Our Lady is good; she is patient in spite of Teresa.” + 

But Gian-Luca said nothing, he was thinking deeply⁠—he was thinking about the Padrona. + 