"Do you? ... Good night."
The old tune was not classical, but it was pretty.
CHAPTER XVII
"I want something substantial," said Conrad gravely, shaking his head. "For the follow, say a Chateaubriand."
Two days had passed, and in his mind a new and disquieting thought had risen—the thought that Rosalind couldn't pay for enough to eat.
Truly she was paying for a great deal to eat, conjuring steaks and puddings on to the tables of a dozen lodgings, and inventing strange stories to account for her having half-sovereigns to lend. But Conrad could not know that. He only knew that the necessities of the Kiss-and-Tell Company were more urgent than he had understood; and he felt very sorry for all the girls, but his heart bled for Lady Bountiful.
"A Chateaubriand," he repeated firmly. It was nourishing. "And pommes soufflées.... No? Well, I'll leave the potatoes to you. With a chestnut purée, eh? And let us have nice sweets. Don't give me the table d'hôte sweets—special. What about peaches? ... Well, send for the best fruit you can get—you've plenty of time. Where's the wine-list? A quarter to two. That table in the corner—for three persons."
There is one place in Blithepoint where the chef can cook, though he shirks pommes soufflées. You go downstairs to it—unless you choose the hotel entrance—and it was in the restaurant downstairs that Conrad ordered the luncheon on Monday. He meant to say things at luncheon. But when Rosalind and Tattie arrived, there was a bomb-shell with the hors d'oeuvres.
"Mr. Quisby has bolted!" they cried, taking their seats.