“No wonder,” she answered, gloomily, “with this awful English cooking! I’m nearly dead from your experiment of getting an English point of view. I want something to eat—something that I like. I want a beefsteak, with mushrooms, and some potatoes au gratin, like those we have in America. I hate the stuff we get here. I wish I could never see another chop as long as I live.”
“‘The Insular’ is considered very good,” I remarked, pensively.
“Considered!” cried she. “Whose consideration counts, I should like to know, when you are always hungry for something you can’t get?”
“I know it; and we are paying such prices, too. Who, except ostriches, could eat their nasty preserves for breakfast when they are having grape-fruit at home? And then their vile aspic jellies and potted meats for luncheon, which look like sausage congealed in cold gravy, and which taste like gum arabic.”
“Let’s move,” said my sister. “Not into another hotel—that wouldn’t be much better. But lot’s take lodgings. I’ve heard that they were lovely. Then we can order what we like. Besides, it will be very much cheaper.”
“I didn’t come over here to economize,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t say a word if we were getting anything for our money, but we are not. Besides, when you get to Paris you will wish you hadn’t been so extravagant here.”
“Are the Paris shops more fascinating than those in Regent Street?” I asked.
“Much more.”
“More alluring, than Bond Street?”