She was escorted by a bouncing, black-eyed waitress to a table for four. The next table was a long one, at which seven traveling men, or local business men whose wives were at the lake for the summer, ceased trying to get nourishment out of the food, and gawped at her. Before the Boltwoods were seated, the waitress dabbed at non-existent spots on their napkins, ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of Claire's plate, made motions at a cup and a formerly plated fork, and bubbled, "Autoing through?"
Claire fumbled for her chair, oozed into it, and breathed, "Yes."
"Going far?"
"Yes."
"Where do you live?"
"New York."
"My! You're quite a ways from home, aren't you?"
"Apparently."
"Hamnegs roasbeef roaspork thapplesauce frypickerel springlamintsauce."
"I—I beg your pardon."