"Haven't you cream?" she curtly challenged the waitress, arriving with ice, lemon-squash, and George's tea.
The alien mercenary met her glance inimically for a second, and then, shutting her lips together, walked off with the milk. At Prosser's the waitresses did not wear caps, and were, in theory, ladies. Lois would have none of the theory; the waitress was ready to die for it and carried it away with her intact. George preferred milk to cream, but he said nothing.
"Yes," Lois went on. "You ought to come to Paris. You have been, haven't you? I remember you told me. We're supposed to go back next week, but if Irene doesn't go, I shan't." She frowned.
George said that positively he would come to Paris.
When they had fairly begun the rich, barbaric meal, Lois asked abruptly:
"Why did you write in the middle of the night?"
Sometimes her voice was veiled.
"Why did I write in the middle of the night? Because I thought I would." He spoke masterfully. He didn't mean to stand any of her cheek.
"Oh!" she laughed nicely. " I didn't mind. I liked it—
awfully. It was just the sort of thing I should have done myself. But you might tell me all about it. I think I deserve that much, don't you?"