“Ma’am?” said the waiter.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she replied quickly. The waiter, his elation restored, gave of his viands with the [v]superfluous bounty loved by his race when distributing the product of the wealthy.
When he had gone, “Give me everything that’s hot,” said Joe. “You can keep the salad.”
“I couldn’t eat it or anything else,” she answered, thrusting the plate between the palms.
For a time there was silence. From within the house came the continuous babble of voices and laughter, the clink of [v]cutlery on china. The young people spent a long time over their supper. By and by the waiter returned to the veranda, deposited a plate of colored ices upon Ariel’s knees with a noble gesture, and departed.
“No ice for me,” said Joe.
“Won’t you please go now?” she entreated.
“It wouldn’t be good manners,” he joked. “They might think I only came for the supper.”
“Give me the dish and coffee-cup,” she whispered, impatiently. “Suppose the waiter came and had to look for them? Quick!”
A bottle-shaped figure appeared in the window, and she had no time to take the plate and cup which were being pushed through the palm-leaves. She whispered a word of warning, and the dishes were hurriedly withdrawn as Norbert Flitcroft, wearing a solemn expression of injury, came out upon the veranda.