“Vill you beef, muddon, schiken, or feal?” whispered Müller, making his round when soup and fish had been removed.
“Veal, please,” said Miss Semaphore.
“Feal, blease,” said Müller under his breath, to impress the order on his mind.
“Vill you beef, muddon, schiken, or feal, Madame?”
“A portion—a tiny portion of the—a—chest of the fowl,” said Mrs. Whitley.
“Roast beef,” growled Mr. Lorimer, and Müller echoed “beef,” adding “blease” on his own account.
“I saw you to-day, Major Jones, but you did not see me,” said the younger Miss Semaphore archly, when the interest of choosing had subsided.
“You what?” asked Major Jones mildly. He was rather deaf.
“I said that I saw you to-day—down in the City, you know. Fancy! I went all that distance by myself in an omnibus! There is such a sweet shop for bargains in St. Paul’s Churchyard, and you passed me just as I turned in.”
“You should not go into the City unescorted,” said Miss Augusta Semaphore severely; “I have told you that over and over again, but you are so heedless. It is not comme il faut.”