“Miss Nash has just come back from Paris. She’s a regular European traveler, just like Mr. Wrenn.”
Mrs. Samuel Ebbitt piped: “Mr. Ebbitt was to Europe. In 1882.”
“No ’twa’n’t, Fannie; ’twas in 1881,” complained Mr. Ebbitt.
Miss Nash waited for the end of this interruption as though it were a noise which merely had to be endured, like the Elevated.
Twice she drew in her breath to speak, and the whole table laid its collective knife and fork down to listen. All she said was:
“Oh, will you pardon me if I speak of it now, Mrs. Ferrard, but would you mind letting me have my breakfast in my room to-morrow? About nine? Just something simple—a canteloupe and some shirred eggs and chocolate?”
“Oh no; why, yes, certainly, “mumbled Mrs. Arty, while the table held its breaths and underneath them gasped:
“Chocolate!”
“A canteloupe!”
“Shirred eggs!”