He chuckled, guided her to a table in the tea room, looked out at the sheeted rain which lashed against the windows. “Jackson,” he said, “would hardly appreciate the humor of the situation. I doubt if he ever had any boyhood.”
“Perhaps,” she ventured, “he was a child in another incarnation.” She picked up the menu. “Well, Mr. Mason, since you’re buying the lunch, I’m going to make it my heavy meal.”
“I thought you were going on a diet,” he said, with mock concern.
“I am,” she admitted, “I’m a hundred and twelve. I want to get back to a hundred and nine.”
“Dry whole wheat toast,” he suggested, “and tea without sugar, would...”
“That’ll be fine for tonight,” she retorted, “but as a working girl, I know when I’m getting the breaks. I’ll have cream of tomato soup, avocado and grapefruit salad, a filet mignon, artichokes, shoestring potatoes, and plum pudding with brandy sauce.”
Mason threw up his hands. “There go my profits on the last murder case. I’ll have one slice of melba toast, cut very thin, and a small glass of water.” But, when he glanced up to see the waitress hovering at his elbow, he said firmly, “‘Two cream of tomato soups, two avocado and grapefruit salads, two filet mignons, medium rare, two hot artichokes, two shoestring potatoes, and two plum puddings with brandy sauce.’ ”
“Chief!” Della Street exclaimed. “I was only kidding!”
“You should never kid at mealtime,” he told her sternly.
“But I can’t eat all that.”