“Beautiful soup so rich and green,” Billy began in a soulful baritone, “waiting in a hot tureen. Where’s mine, Molly?”
“Dolly’s bringing your first course, sir.”
Billy gazed in perplexity at the half of a delicious grapefruit set before him by the duplicate of the pretty girl who stood smiling deprecatingly behind Caroline’s chair.
“Where’s my soup, Dolly?” Billy asked with a thundering sternness of manner.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dolly began glibly, “but the soup has given out. Will you be good enough to allow the substitution of—”
“That’s a formula,” Billy said. “The soup can’t be out. We’re the first people in the dining-room. Go tell Miss Nancy that I will be served with some of that green soup at once, or know the reason why.”
The two waitresses exchanged glances, and went off together suppressing giggles, to return almost immediately, their risibility still causing them great physical inconvenience.
“Intelligent supervision, she says.” Dolly exploded into the miniature patch of muslin and ribbon that served her as an apron.
“She says that’s the reason why,” Molly contributed,—following her sister’s example.