"Yes, them silly things rich folks begins their dinners with—anchovies and holives."
"You mean hors-d'oeuvres?" That I suppressed a smile should go to my good account, I think.
"That's it, only my tongue won't twist round it like yours."
"And where have you met them?" I inquired with interest.
"At Tompkinses'!"
"And did they have them every night?"
"No, just at dinner parties." She spoke in an airy, careless fashion.
"I see," I said, greatly impressed.
Amelia had been accustomed to hors-d'oeuvres at dinner parties, and yet she condescended to live with us.
I looked with unusual interest at her closely-curled fringe, her sharp, eager features, and her shamrock brooch. I listened to her squeaking; it was the corsets this time. Sometimes a bone cracks in them like the report of a small pistol, and I think to myself, "Well, there is one less to break." But the number never seems to diminish. I fancy she must have a horde of bones, a sort of nest-egg of bones, put by, and as soon as one cracks it is promptly replaced by a sound one. Occasionally one bores through her print bodice, and then she puts a patch on the place, a new print patch, which rarely matches the rest of her dress. I counted four one day. She will look like a patchwork quilt soon, and I feel a little depressed at the prospect.