[The Waiter, conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times.
Pussy. Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything—now.
Adorer. Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and Sole au gratin. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (Tentatively.) A Cutlet?
Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality). A Cutlet—the idea!
Adorer (abashed). I thought perhaps—but look down the list. (Pussy glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested.) "Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste,"—that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?
Pussy. You may if you like—I shan't touch it myself.
Adorer. Well, look here, then, "Rognons sautés Venézienne,"—Kidneys, you know—you like kidneys.
Pussy (icily). Do I? I was not aware of it.
Adorer. Come—it's for you to say. (Reads from list.) "Châteaubriand Bordelaise," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (Pussy, who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely.) Don't like any of them? Well, (helplessly) can't you think of anything you would like?
Pussy. Nothing—except—(with decision)—a Cutlet.