"As hors d'oeuvres," she continued, "we will have olives and anchois à l'huile. That is quite enough for a little home dinner. You write it all in English for Anna as I read it to you. Here, take this piece of paper and pencil, dear."
I wrote: "Olives. Anchovies at the oil."
"For soup," she went on, "I shall have things that sound really much better than they are, as I don't want to confuse Anna. Just two soups, Archie, consommé julienne, and crème d'asperges. I did think of petite marmite, but there is just a chance that Anna might fail at it, as even in Paris none but the finest chefs really succeed with petite marmite. So just put down consommé julienne, and crème d'asperges."
"Beef soup with vegetables. Cream of asparagus," I wrote. "Don't you think, Letitia, that one soup would have been enough—one thoroughly artistic and satisfactory soup?"
"No, Archie," she responded with some asperity. "I hate pinning people down to one thing—taking a tailor-like measure of their tastes, as it were. Doesn't it all sound horrid in English?" she queried with a laugh. "One might really fancy a little consommé julienne, whereas beef soup with vegetables sounds absolutely tin-can-ny, and red-handkerchief-y."
I thought of Letitia at the restaurant, just one hour previously, and realized what absolute hunger can do for a lissome little lady.
"Just one entrée, Archie,"' said she, "merely homard naturel. Everybody likes it, and I prefer to class it as an entrée. I did think of having it à la Newburg, but it is a bit too heavy, don't you think, dear? I don't want our dinner to be a foody affair—"
"Like that we have just finished," I interposed thoughtfully.
"No," she agreed rather reluctantly. "We were both disgracefully hungry, and—and—you needn't keep discussing that meal, for it was a meal, and not a dinner. Now, write down, please, as entrée, homard naturel."
"Natural lobster," emerged from my pencil tip.