"I was afraid to confess my own greediness," he said, laughing. He beckoned the waitress. "Two more."
"We haven't got any more strawberries," was her unexpected reply. "There's been such a run on them to-day."
Winifred's face grew overcast. "Oh, nonsense!" she pouted. To John the moment seemed tragic.
"Won't you have another kind?" he queried. He himself liked any kind, but he could scarcely eat a second ice without her.
Winifred meditated. "Coffee?" she queried.
The waitress went away and returned with a face as gloomy as Winifred's. "It's been such a hot day," she said deprecatingly. "There is only one ice in the place and that's Neapolitan."
"Well, bring two Neapolitans," John ventured.
"I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left."
"Well, bring that. I don't really want one."
He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felt a certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something of the haunting sadness of "The Last Rose of Summer." It would make a graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking. But at the last spoonful, his beautiful companion dislocated his rhymes by her sudden upspringing.