"Well, sit down by me while I feed. I feel I want a jolly good blow out."
They had reached the doors of the restaurant opposite the main entrance to the underground railway. The issuing odours smote Mavis's hesitation hip and thigh.
"I—I really must be off," faltered Mavis, as she stood stockstill on the pavement.
By way of reply, Miss Toombs shoved the unresisting Mavis through the swing doors of the eating house; then, taking the lead, she piloted her to a secluded corner on the first floor, which was not nearly so crowded as the downstair rooms.
"It's nice to see good old Keeves again," remarked Miss Toombs, as she thrust a list of appetising foods under Mavis's nose.
"I'm really not a bit hungry," declared Mavis, who avoided looking at the toothsome-looking bread-rolls as far as her ravening hunger would permit. She grasped the tablecloth to stop herself from attacking these.
"Got any real turtle soup?" asked Miss Toombs of the polyglot waiter who now stood beside the table.
"Mock turtle," said the man, as he put his finger on this item in the menu card.
"Two oxtail soups," Miss Toombs demanded.
"Apres?"