It was like asking her whether she would have a Gorham tea-set, a Balcom gown, or a Packard landaulet. She wanted them all.
But her eyes caught the prices. Four dollars for an English pheasant! No wonder they called it golden. It seemed a shame, though, to stick such a nice man, after he had already ordered two dollars and a half's worth of caviar.
She chose the cheapest thing. She was already falling in love with Ferriday.
The plover was only a dollar. She was not quite sure what kind of animal it would turn out to be. She had a womanly intuition that it was a fowl of some breed. She wanted to know. She had come to the stomach school.
“I think I'll take a bit of the plover,” she said.
“Nice girl!” thought Ferriday, who recognized her vicarious economy.
“Plover it is,” he said to the waiter, and added, “tell Pierre it's for me and he'd better not burn it again.”
The waiter was crushed by Pierre's lapse, especially as the chef's name was Achille.
Ferriday went on: “With the plover we might have some champignons frais sous cloche and a salade de laitue avec French dressing, yes? Then a substantial sweet: a coupe aux marrons or a nesselrode pudding, yes?”
Kedzie wanted to ask for a plain, familiar vanilla ice-cream, but she knew better. She ordered the nesselrode—and got her ice-cream, after all. There were chestnuts in it, too—so she was glad she had not selected the coupe aux marrons.