Then what Mr. Maynard really did, was to order Marjorie's favourite dishes.
First, they had grape-fruit, all cut in bits, and piled up in dainty, long-stemmed glasses. Then, they had a soft, thick soup, and then sweetbreads with mushrooms.
"You're not to get ill, you know," said Mr. Maynard, as Marjorie showed a surprising appetite, "but I do want you to have whatever you like to-day."
"Oh, I won't get ill," declared Marjorie, gaily, "and now, may I select the ice cream?"
"Yes, if you won't ask for plum pudding also."
"No, but I do want little cakes, iced all over. Pink and green and white and yellow ones."
These were allowed, and Marjorie blissfully kept on nibbling them, while Mr. Maynard sipped his coffee. In the afternoon they went to a matinée. It was one of the gorgeous spectacular productions, founded upon an old fairy tale, and Marjorie was enraptured with the beautiful tableaux, the wonderful scenery, and the gay music.
"Oh, Father," she said, "aren't we having the gorgeousest time! You are the beautifulest man in the whole world!"
After the performance, Mr. Maynard spoke of going home, but Marjorie's eyes held a mute appeal, which he could not resist.
"Ice cream again!" he said, though she had not spoken the words. "Well, ice cream it is, then, but no rich cakes this time. I promised Motherdy I'd bring you home safe and sound. But I'll tell you, we'll buy some of those cakes to take home, and you may have them to-morrow."