“This horse thinks he’s at a funeral. What o’clock is it?”
“It’s only eight minutes past four. There is plenty of time.”
When they alighted, Lalage hurried into the restaurant; scrutinized the tables; and selected the best lighted one. The waiter, a decorous elderly man, approached with some severity of manner, and handed a bill of fare to Marmaduke. She snatched it from him, and addressed the waiter sharply.
“Bring me some thin soup; and get me a steak to follow. Let it be a thick juicy one. If its purple and raw I wont have it; and if its done to a cinder, I wont have it: it must be red. And get me some spring cabbage and potatoes, and a pint of dry champagne—the decentest you have. And be quick.”
“And what for you, sir?” said the waiter, turning to Marmaduke.
“Never mind him,” interrupted Susanna. “Go and attend to me.”
The waiter bowed and retired.
“Old stick-in-the-mud!” muttered Miss Lalage. “Is it half-past four yet?”
“No. It’s only quarter past. There’s lots of time.”
Mademoiselle Lalage ate until the soup, a good deal of bread, the steak, the vegetables, and the pint of champagne—less a glassful taken by her companion—had disappeared. Marmaduke watched her meanwhile, and consumed two ices.