"Why," asked the Fitz-Marlton, "was not our chef considered enough? Why drag in others?"
"How does it happen that our fifty-thousand-dollars-a-year Piccolini, who possesses eighteen decorations from crowned heads, is not one of the Public Menu Commission? Don't you want the best?" This came from the Vandergilt in writing that looked like ornamental spaghetti.
"Please call at your earliest convenience and see what we give for $17.38 in the way of a substantial breakfast," laconically invited Herr Bummerlich of the Pastoral.
Caspar Weinpusslacher called in person. He asked, reproachfully:
"How it comes, Mr. Rutchers, that your best friend—"
"Weinie," interrupted H. R., "this will cost you two thousand five hundred tickets for your thirty-cent meal. You are put down as one of the best three restaurateurs, together with Perry's and the Robespierre."
"But say, Mr. Rutchers, two thousand five hundred—" began Weinie, trying to look angry at the extortion. He was rich now; he was even one of the sights of New York.
"Three thousand! That's what your haggling has done," cut in H. R., with the cold determination that made him so formidable.
"All right!" And Caspar ran out of the room. A terrible man, this. But Frau Weinpusslacher would be in society now.
"I trust you will not be misled by newspaper scientists into fool dietetics," wrote McAppen Dix, M.D., the hygiene expert of an afternoon paper.