While she has briefly passed, as it were, in front of the cameras, let us linger slightly on Miss Stella Watermaster, the maitress d'hotel of L'Etoile d'Argent, the four-star restaurant that is the pride of Shepherd's Hotel, Casino Island.

This is actually something that is done by some of the older gentlefurs who frequent the restaurant, and who wile away the minutes waiting for their entrees by appreciating the musteline form divine. And with thick, lush black tail-fur, matching headfur, and a skirt-suit cut to flatter, Miss Watermaster is very much worth the appreciation.

In that mysterious way that governs Life in general, Miss Watermaster already has a beau. Surprisingly, it is also a fur that we have met. Namely, Mr. Mooney, one of the reporters for the Spontoon Mirror. We have told the tale of how these two met elsewhere, so we will not detain you here for that. Suffice it to say that Miss Watermaster owes certain obligations of chivalric origin to Mr. Mooney, who in turn benefits from the access to certain kitchen left-overs. The pay of a journalist, while regular, can always use a helping paw.

In point of fact, on this morning in question, Mr. Mooney is discreetly tucked away in a remote corner of the dish-room at the restaurant, and is about to start in on some poached eggs and kippers with lashings of Tabasco Sauce. Just as well, one supposes, that Chef Joseph (he of the strawberry in Her Serene Highness' décolletage) is not present to witness that. Parisian chefs have definite views on the use of bottled condiments.

Unlike Andre D'Arbes, her squirrel colleague, Miss Watermaster rules the dining room with tact and diplomacy. Not for her is the hissed insult or raised eyebrow of interrogation. Rather, a soft, rich, low voice conveys the message she wants to put across in a manner that is infinitely more intimidating than a Gallic sneer. Princess Moushaska aside, there are very few who wish to challenge her. Indeed, there are many old roués who find themselves steered to tables of a slightly lesser station than they had originally reserved, because of intervening crises, but are not in a position to resist. Warm smiles and gracious thank-yous will have a certain effect on susceptible minds.

Well, that and thick, gleaming tailfur, too. Honesty compels us to admit that.

This tactic, the use of soft voice and softer eyes, has been in use this morning. Miss Watermaster, with an abundance of prudence, had surveyed the reservations-list as the start of the meal, and had seen to her great dismay that on the one paw, Mr. von der Wald had reserved a table for four at the same time that Her Serene Highness had reserved a table for one. Equally alarming was the fact that these tables were next to each other.

A maitress d'hotel has a long memory. It's one of the tools of the trade. The last meeting involving certain of these parties, while it did not end in the time honoured Reginald Buckhorn manner, was awkward in the extreme.

The minkess, however, is very much equal to the task. With practiced eye, she watches both the clock and the diners to see which tables become open, and which parties arrive. On a number of fronts, luck is with her. A simply superb table, in fact, the best in the house, falls open well away from the von der Wald/Trotter table. Even better, the fur that has reserved it is a gouty old stallion. A whispered word with a waiter brings home the crowning bit of intelligence: an exiled Russian general.

The general, with a punctuality that would have done him far better stead had he utilized this at Tannenburg, arrives on the scene, and is met by the minkess with a warm smile and swishing tail. Monocle is inserted into equine eye, and what meets said eye brightens the morning.

Humble and whispered apologies are tendered, and the old soldier is brought into the minkess' confidence. Awkward Situations are described, and the Horror of a Scene. The stallion nods sagely. Miss Watermaster is speaking his language, in a sense, and he Understands All. What, it is enquired, would the charming young lady have him do to resolve the situation?

Here, at the brink of victory, Miss Watermaster makes a small tactical error. She discloses the name of the party with whom she desires the General to exchange tables.

Monocle pops from eye and swings free on its cord, before being reinserted into eye. A princess? Dining alone? Unthinkable! Unheard-of! Not to mention ungracious to let her dine alone. No, nyet, nein and non, the noble lady is to join him for breakfast. At her table. At his expense. This, he insists, and will not be moved on the matter.

With some chagrin, the minkess realizes her error, but on the other paw, there is the saving grace of what is in effect a chaperone, and one who is likely to perform that arcane medical procedure known as talking one's ear off.

The General is duly escorted to his table, wherein he immediately corrals a waiter, and demands champagne. For breakfast. Pre-1914 habits, it would seem, have risen to the fore.

The next party to arrive causes less anxiety on the part of Miss Watermaster. In this case, it is a party of three. Namely, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Tush, along with Stanley Morgan. The boar is toting a small briefcase, indicating that this may be something of a working breakfast. The sow is wincing and holding her head delicately, perhaps a sign that she would vastly prefer NOT to be working at even this relatively advanced hour of the morning. Furthermore, the clatter of silverware upon china plates is evidently causing her some distress. Nevertheless, she is a fur of steel, and she manages to reach her place and sit down, heavily.

The same waiter who has just delivered a silver bucket containing Moet White Star to the general has a blessedly whispered conversation with Mrs. Tush. He recognizes a "morning after" when he sees one, and volunteers to visit the Long Bar for a certain preparation made by the pudu currently on duty there.

He is soon in possession of both instructions and a five-pound note for himself. Already, he muses, this is proving to be a profitable morning.

Little noticed is the fact that their servants, namely, the Great Organizer and a large catamount, have padded after them, and even now are standing against the far wall, near the entrance to the kitchen. The general might recognize this as the strategic high-ground, in that it affords a commanding view of the dining room and is at a crucial choke-point for the passage of supplies and personnel.

Then again, given the general's record at Tannenburg and Port Arthur, he might well not recognize this.

Next to arrive is the party of four, comprised of three horses and a wolf mel. With due gravity, Henry von der Wald seats his fiancée at her place at the table. With due gravity, the filly accepts her seat. Douglas Trotter does this same for his good mate, and is about to seat himself when a fur catches his eye.

"Good Lord, is that you, Harry?"

Boar turns around in seat, to discover with glad eye a fur he evidently knows.

"Doug! It's been an age! How are you, sport?"

Mrs. Tush, wincing, wishes that her mate didn't have quite so many college chums. They seem to bump into each other in the most unlikely places. Indeed, Douglas Trotter is cheerfully introducing his mate, daughter and future son-in-law to the magazine publisher, who bows and shakes paws, appropriately. Further introductions are made to the party seated with the boar.

Mr. von der Wald nods politely at Stanley Morgan, who nods back equally politely. Only a brief glance is exchanged between filly and stallion. There is a brief look of sadness in Phoebe Trotter's eyes which causes her to turn away slightly.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Trotter, of course, know Stanley Morgan as a decent fellow, and he is greeted graciously. A brief allusion is made to the purpose of the breakfast, which engenders polite interest in the older horses, and a significant ear-perk from the filly.

Actually, there's another equine ear-perk in play, as well. The general may not have had much of an eye for maps, plans and strategy (ask any of the millions who served under him), but he most certainly has an eye for young lady horses, and what he sees pleases him immensely. He is reminded of a certain prima ballerina he once knew very well in St. Petersburg, when he was a young stallion and a newly-minted second lieutenant with a generous allowance from a father who also appreciated a corps de ballet. An imperious snap of the fingers, and a waiter is summoned with whispered orders demanding certain intelligence. A five-pound note is passed discreetly from paw to paw to help speed the process.

Consideration is being given to sending over a bottle of champagne to the next table, but for once in his life, the general takes due caution, which would have been far better used at Tannenburg. Best, he thinks, to wait until the full facts.

At this moment, a conversation is being had at the front station. The Princess Moushaska is impatiently waiting for her table, and is only three-quarters listening to the minkess, whose blandishments are not having their usual effect. A snapping tail and impatiently tapping foot are indicating that things are coming to a boil, and may not end terribly well.

Two events occur that manage to bring things off the front-burner. The first is that the general, catching sight of the wolfess and knowing a princess of an ancient Baltic house when he sees one, painfully gets to his hooves, hobbles over, clicks his hooves smartly (he'll pay for that gouty action later), throws off a smart salute, and in a booming voice addresses the Princess in her own tongue, indicating that the pleasure of hosting her for breakfast is all his.

Peering behind the broad and aged shoulders, Moushaska notes, with great interest, that the place where she is evidently going to be escorted is right next to a wolf mel of great interest. The promise of both a free and luxurious meal, and a good view, breaks down her resistance.

Ignoring the matiress d'hotel (who does not matter), she extends an elbow discreetly, where it is taken, and with due ceremony, she is brought to the table. After surveying the table, with discreet whispers to the stallion, she is placed in a certain position. Back to back with Henry von der Wald. Which seems, at first blush, to be an odd choice.

The Great Organizer, however, from the commanding heights, sees the move, and this fact registers in his mind.

It is only by some laughing persuasion on the part of the Princess, and the fortunate absence of a cavalry sabre, that the fine old Russian Army way of opening champagne bottles is passed over, in favour of a more conventional, if less exciting way.

Even still, the loud POP of the cork is enough to rattle the nerves of Xanthippe Tush. Fortunately for her, at that very moment, a dark red beverage, bubbling mysteriously, is placed in front of her. A sip from it is followed by two large gulps, followed by a significant belch, which is studiously ignored by all those within hearing. Nevertheless, it has its effect, and at least the sow is able to follow the business meeting.

Actually, Douglas Trotter and Harold Tush are having a cross-table conversation in low voice, which does touch on the business meeting, briefly. The news that Stanley Morgan is making a sale to Tush Publications, Ltd. is of interest.

In the centre table, conversation, briefly started, has quietly shuddered to a halt. Mrs. Trotter is far too polite a mare to push talk where talk is not wanted, and she is old and experienced enough to detect that there is a certain element of discord at the table. Fiancé and Fiancée are barely exchanging glances, which is not something that one expects when wedding bells are due to chime in a matter of a few days.

Truth be told, Henry von der Wald's mind is not on conversation. At the moment, it is more in line with the fact that somefur's tail is rubbing up against his ankle. Peripheral vision indicates the likely source, and reciprocation is tried. It is successful.

All of this, of course, invisible to nearly all patrons of the restaurant. Save one.

Sergei Ivanovich has taken due note of this fact, and the seating pattern he saw previously is explained. There is, of course, the question of how this fact can be utilized.

"Hey."

A punch to cervine shoulder.

"Hey."

"Citizen Jake, in the confines of a very fancy restaurant, it is not the done thing to get one's attention by means of a fist against shoulder. I do not criticize. I merely inform."

"I'm hungry."

"Is it wise, Citizen Jake, to have a hearty meal before an audition? Might I remind you of your appointment in scant ninety minutes."

"Yeah, but I can't do no singin' on an empty stomach. I gotta eat."

The dining room is surveyed, as the three key tables in question are each being served their first course.

"Very well. A brief, tactical retreat to the kitchen is in order. But I beg you, Citizen, do not interfere with the head chef or his minions, else your next appointment will be with a first aid provider, and not a studio. These Parisian types are hard characters when provoked."

However, we are pleased to report, the exfiltration proceeds without incident, and the back of the kitchen is soon gained. There, the Great Organizer stops, and processes new intelligence.

There, seated on an overturned bucket, Mr. Michael Mooney, of the Spontoon Mirror, is finishing up his eggs and coffee.

"Hey. Hey, buddy!"

A smaller cat looks up to a much larger cat, and swallows a bit of coffee the wrong way.

"Hey."

"Wheredja get the grub, buddy?"

"You must pardon my friend, here. He has certain priorities in life, one of which is the obtaining of, as he puts it, "vittles," at regular intervals and in quantity."

The reporter squints at his interlocutor.

"I've seen him before. And you, too. Weren't you on the Princess Moushaska's boat, at her big shindig?"

"I am by nature a truth-telling buck, and so I say, indeed I was, along with my distinguished colleague, here."

Introductions are made, paws shaken, and unguarded bowl of fruit salad pointed out.

"That was one hum-dinger of an ending, kid, to that party, and make no mistake. Sure wish I had that photograph my buddy took."

"Knowing what I know of the bourgeois press, Citizen Mooney, I can readily appreciate the appeal to the taste of the masses, whose class consciousness has yet to be raised."

"Yeah. Did see that other bird rescue the Princess, though."

"Oh? I am afraid I missed that. Details, I pray you."

Details are forthcoming, and in return, details regarding Grass-bed Point are divulged, in the nature of an eyewitness account. This is met with an appreciative whistle.

"Hunh. That old buck Stagg must have had a word with my boss. Didn't see anything in the papers beyond the car going over the cliff."

"The combination of Monopoly and Capital is a terrible thing for journalism, Citizen Mooney."

"Yeah, but it pays my bills until I can land a byline."

"The term is not familiar to me, Citizen."

"Heh. It means I've got a story that instead of going out under "By our correspondent," has yours truly's handle underneath the headline."

"Is there a difference?"

Fingers of one paw are eloquently rubbed together, accompanied by a wink.

The Great Organizer, at this point, has a flash of inspiration, of the kind that no doubt the great captains of war had in days of yore. And of the kind that many soldiers at Tannenburg wearing khaki wish their commander had had.

"Are you aware, Citizen Mooney, that scant steps from where you and my colleague are consuming breakfast, the combination of Decadent Nobility and Predatory Capital are rubbing tails against ankles?"

There is a brief, blank look from the reporter. Assistance is forthcoming.

"I t'ink he means," Jake Greenmount notes after swallowing a large portion of mango, "dat dat Princess dame and dat Wall Street guy are playin' footsie fer real."

The translation is indeed helpful, and causes the reporter to put aside mere thoughts of stomach, in favour of notepad and pencil. "This, I gotta see."

"Follow me, Citizen Mooney, and keep your pencil sharp and page fresh. You will, I feel confident, have that byline of which you speak so highly."