“I think Royal Sats’ma would be nice. And some silverware?”
“Surely.”
“And could we get some special stuff to eat?”
“What would you like?”
“Why—”
Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented. He put his head on one side, rubbed his chin with nice consideration, and condescended, “What would you suggest?”
“For a party high tea? Why, perhaps consomme and omelet Bergerac and a salad and a sweet and cafe diable. We have a chef who does French eggs rather remarkably. That would be simple, but—”
“Yes, that would be very good,” gravely granted the patron of cuisine. “At six; for two.”
As he walked away he grinned within. “Gee! I talked to that omelet Berg’ rac like I’d known it all my life!”
Other s’prises for Istra’s party he sought. Let’s see; suppose it really were her birthday, wouldn’t she like to have a letter from some important guy? he queried of himself. He’d write her a make-b’lieve letter from a duke. Which he did. Purchasing a stamp, he humped over a desk in the common room and with infinite pains he inked the stamp in imitation of a postmark and addressed the letter to “Lady Istra Nash, Mouse Castle, Suffolk.”