“Really,” he exclaimed, “a French chef must have broiled this steak. Not even Delmonico, nor Oscar himself at the Waldorf, could have done it better. Isn’t it the top-notch, Eddie? What’s this? Mushroom sauce? By Jupiter, it’s wonderful to come out here in the wilds and get such food.”
Mary Stewart began to laugh. After all, it was just good-natured raillery.
“Why, Mr. Blount,” she said, “there is something to be found here that is lots better than porter-house steak.”
“What is it? Name it, please!” cried Richard. “If I must miss the train, I must have some, whatever it is—cream puffs or chocolate fudge?”
“It’s Kentucky ham of the finest, what do you call it—breed? Three years old. You’ve never eaten ham until you’ve tasted it.”
She smiled charmingly at Molly, who pretended to look unconscious while she passed the vegetables. Judith endeavored to change the subject.
She was angry with Mary for thus bringing her freshman waitress into prominence. But Molly was destined to be the heroine of the evening in spite of all efforts against it.
“Old Kentucky ham!” cried Richard Blount, starting from his chair with mock seriousness, “Where is it? I implore you to tell me. My soul cries out for old ham from the dark and bloody battleground of Kentucky!”
Everybody began to laugh, and Judith exclaimed:
“Do hush, Richard. You are so absurd! Did he behave this way at Harvard all the time, Cousin Edwin?”