The waitress repeated.
"I—oh—oh, bring us ham and eggs. Is that all right, father?"
"Oh—no—well——"
"You wanted same?" the waitress inquired of Mr. Boltwood.
He was intimidated. He said, "If you please," and feebly pawed at a fork.
The waitress was instantly back with soup, and a collection of china gathered by a man of much travel, catholic interests, and no taste. One of the plates alleged itself to belong to a hotel in Omaha. She pushed a pitcher of condensed milk to the exact spot where it would catch Mr. Boltwood's sleeve, brushed the crumb from in front of Claire to a shelter beneath the pink and warty sugar bowl, recovered a toothpick which had been concealed behind her glowing lips, picked for a while, gave it up, put her hands on her hips, and addressed Claire:
"How far you going?"
"To Seattle."
"Got any folks there?"
"Any—— Oh, yes, I suppose so."