"About how much would it be?"
He wanted to forestall at least one surprise.
"Oh, not a great deal," Fernand smiled, with the bedside manner of a family doctor. "Miss Cabot hates heavy food. Zhoost a little cocktel, and some caviar d'Astrakhan to begin; and perhaps a little broth; ah, better! she likes purée St.-Germain. And after, a little berd and some salade, a sweet, perhaps, or a cheese, some coffee—nothing more! Very simple is best."
This sounded so sane that Forbes began to pluck up hope. He asked:
"Does she—do they—will you give us wine of any kind?"
"Miss Cabot does not care for champagne; and Mr. Enslee—did you say he would be of the party?"
Forbes had not said it, and he flushed to think that everybody, even a head waiter, must be linking Persis' name with Enslee's. But more than ever now he must make sure not to give a shabby meal. Meanwhile he answered the question with a casual nod:
"Yes, Mr. Enslee will be here."
Fernand spoke with indulgent pity: "Mr. Enslee takes usually only a highball of the Scotch. But I think you could tempt them both with a little sherry—for the sake of the berd. I have a sherry that is delicious."
"How much delicious?" Forbes asked, trying to be flippant at his own funeral.