“But,” questioned Mabel, “are you sure it’s all right?”
“Of course. I told you I knew a way to fix it. Here’s a place right here—not very big but the folks look all right. Stand up straight and don’t look so scared. There, that’s better.”
They were inside. The waiter held up two fingers and escorted them to a table. They sat down and Henrietta leisurely removed her gloves. Mabel’s had been removed—and lost—for some hours.
“We might as well have a good meal,” remarked Henrietta, studying the menu. “Of course, if Mr. Black were paying for it I’d leave the choice to him; but as long as he isn’t we’ll choose what we like. Let’s begin with cream of celery soup. Then how would you like chicken à la king and shrimp salad, creamed cauliflower, French fried potatoes—and ice cream for dessert?”
“That’s all right for me,” agreed Mabel, visibly cheering up, “only I like the looks of the green corn that man is eating over there; and the waiter just went by with a big tray of fluffy things—”
“French pastry. We can have some of that, too.”
They enjoyed their meal. Being lost wasn’t half bad when the salad was so delicious, the chicken so tender, the rolls so delightfully crisp, the corn so sweet, the service so excellent. Besides her ice cream, Mabel ate two varieties of French pastry and was sorry that Henrietta didn’t urge her to try more when there were so many kinds. But Henrietta was putting on her gloves.
Henrietta picked up the slip, carried it to the cashier’s desk and remarked, calmly: “Charge it, please, to Mrs. Howard Slater.”
“But, my dear girl,” objected the cashier, “we don’t charge meals. This is a cash place.”
“Oh, is it?” said Henrietta, flushing slightly. “I’m sorry for that. You see, we haven’t any cash. But if you will send the bill to my grandmother, of course she will pay it.”