“The dinner-bell is ringing,” observed Will.
“Well, let’s to table!” Ethel said. “There’s nothing like forty miles an hour to give one an appetite.”
The dinner was delicious. There were the country dishes—soupe blanchie, artichokes and beans, an eel in bouillon, stewed chicken and a salad, an ice and the fritters of the province. The middle of the table was decorated with a magnificent bouquet of roses, while all around were wild flowers of the fields. The cook hired by Mme. Riçois had done things well,—too well, indeed. Over and above the flowers, the table was furnished with as many bottles as in an inn.
“Take away those bottles of wine that litter up the table,” Ethel said to the valet.
“But, mademoiselle, what are you going to drink?” asked the cook, who was standing near.
“We shall drink water—with ice in it.”
“Water—with ice!”
“At every meal,” Miss Rowrer added.
“But after your ice-cream—to warm up the stomach?”
“Ice-water!” said Ethel.