"Don't you?" she said indulgently, as if saying, "Well, I know one, at any rate."
"They say," he continued, "that there is no butter used in this place that costs less than three shillings a pound."
"No butter costs them three shillings a pound," said she.
"Not in London," said he. "They have it from Paris."
"And do you believe that?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I don't. Any one that pays more than one-and-nine a pound for butter, at the most, is a fool, if you'll excuse me saying the word. Not but what this is good butter. I couldn't get as good in Putney for less than eighteen pence."
She made him feel like a child who has a great deal to pick up from a kindly but firm sister.
"No, thank you," she said, a little dryly, to the waiter who proffered a further supply of chip potatoes.
"Now don't say they're cold," Priam laughed.