Kedzie chose the latter because it was the latter. She mumbled:
“I think a little cremmy vly Marie Louisa would be nice.”
She was amazed to find later how much it tasted like chicken soup.
“We don't want any fish, do we?” Ferriday moaned. “Or do we? They don't really understand the suprême de sole à la Verdi here, so suppose we skip to the roast, unless you would risk the aigulette de pompano, Coquelin. The last time I had a tronçon de saumon here I had to send it back.”
Kedzie said, “Let's skip.”
She shuddered. The word reminded her, as always, of Skip Magruder. She remembered how he had hung over the table that far-away morning and recommended ham 'n'eggs. His dirty shirt-sleeves and his grin came back to her now. The gruesome Banquo reminded her so vividly of her early guilt of plebeiancy that she shivered. The alert Ferriday noticed it and called:
“Have that window closed at once. There's an infernal draught here.”
Kedzie was thrilled at his autocratic manner. He scared off the ghost of Magruder.
Ferriday pondered aloud the bill of fare as if it were the plot of a new feature film.
“Capon en casserole, milk-fed guinea-hen escoffier, plover en cocotte, English golden pheasant, partridge—do any of those tiresome things interest you?”