“Perhaps that came from your dancing,” Pryde said gallantly. Angela danced well.
“More probably it was the midnight supper she’d eaten,” laughed Latham, pointing a rueful professional finger at the tea-table.
“Perhaps it was both,” the hostess said cheerfully. “And my, it was beautiful. But oh, we never had supper at midnight. No fear! Two or three was nearer the hour. But such good suppers. You don’t know how to eat over here,” she added sadly. “For one thing, you simply don’t know how to cook a lobster—not one of you.”
“How should a lobster be cooked?” Pryde said lazily.
“Hot—hot—hot. Or it’s good in a mayonnaise. But who ever saw a mayonnaise in London? No one.”
“I am not greatly surprised that you dreamed at some height, if you regularly supped off lobster, Mrs. Hilary, at three in the morning, either frappé or sizzling hot,” Latham told her.
“And champagne with it,” Stephen ventured.
“Never! I detest champagne with shellfish.”
“Stout?” Pryde quizzed.
Angela made a face.