“Well, I wondered what you were doing so long. But never mind your cakes. It’s twenty minutes past six, and the table d’hote’s on time.”
“You don’t mean to say you dine at the table d’hote!” Mr. Flack cried.
“Why, don’t you like that?”—and Francie’s candour of appeal to their comrade’s taste was celestial.
“Well, it isn’t what you must build on when you come to Paris. Too many flowerpots and chickens’ legs.”
“Well, would you like one of these restaurants?” asked Mr. Dosson. “I don’t care—if you show us a good one.”
“Oh I’ll show you a good one—don’t you worry.” Mr. Flack’s tone was ever that of keeping the poor gentleman mildly but firmly in his place.
“Well, you’ve got to order the dinner then,” said Francie.
“Well, you’ll see how I could do it!” He towered over her in the pride of this feat.
“He has got an interest in some place,” Delia declared. “He has taken us to ever so many stores where he gets his commission.”
“Well, I’d pay you to take them round,” said Mr. Dosson; and with much agreeable trifling of this kind it was agreed that they should sally forth for the evening meal under Mr. Flack’s guidance.