"What shall it be?" he asked. "Lobster and champagne?"
She laughed at him.
"Marjorie says you are an authority on food. I don't believe authorities on food ever take lobster and champagne. Anyway, I don't like lobster, much. Surely there's something they do best here, isn't there? Let's have that."
"You show the right spirit," said Wimsey. "I will compose a dinner for you."
He called the head waiter, and went into the question scientifically.
"Huîtres Musgrave—I am opposed on principle to the cooking of oysters—but it is a dish so excellent that one may depart from the rules in its favor. Fried in their shells, Miss Dorland, with little strips of bacon. Shall we try it?—The soup must be Tortue Vraie, of course. The fish—oh! just a Filet de Sole, the merest mouthful, a hyphen between the prologue and the main theme."
"That all sounds delightful. And what is the main theme to be?"
"I think a Faisan Rôti with Pommes Byron. And a salad to promote digestion. And, waiter—be sure the salad is dry and perfectly crisp. A Soufflé Glace to finish up with. And bring me the wine-list."
They talked. When she was not on the defensive, the girl was pleasant enough in manner; a trifle downright and aggressive, perhaps, in her opinions, but needing only mellowing.
"What do you think of the Romanée Conti?" he asked, suddenly.