“My God!” Dick said in an undertone to Betty, “how long has she been like this?”
“I’ll tell you later,” she promised him again.
With the serving of the first course of dinner—Gaspard’s wonderful Purée Mongol—an artist’s 265 dream of all the most delicate vegetables in the world mingled together as the clouds are mingled, the tensity in the air seemed to break and shatter about them in showers of brilliant, artificial mirth, which presently, because they were all young and fond of one another and their group had the habit of intimacy, became less and less strained and unreal.
Nancy’s tired eyes lost something of their unnatural glitter, and Betty seemed more of a woman than a scarlet sprite, while Caroline’s smile began to reflect something of the real gladness that possessed her soul. Dick and Billy took up the burden of the entertainment of the party, and gave at least an excellent imitation of inspirational gaiety.
“This filet of sole,” Billy observed as he sampled his second course appreciatively, “is common or barnyard flounder,—and the shrimp and the oyster crab, and that mushroom of the sea, and the other little creature in the corner of my plate who shall be nameless, because I have no idea what his name is,—are all put in to make it harder.”
“Gaspard is using some of the simpler native 266 products now instead of the high-priced imported ones,” Nancy said eagerly, “and he is getting wonderful results, I think.”
“Flounder a la Française is all right,” Dick said.
“Our restaurant has reformed,” Betty said. “We’re running it on a strictly business basis.”
“And making money?” Dick asked quickly.
“We’re not losing much,” Betty said. “That’s a great improvement.”