CHAPTER XX.
A LITTLE LUNCH AT APHONSE’S
It chanced that Ridgway, through the swinging door of a department store, caught a glimpse of Miss Balfour as he was striding along the street. He bethought him that it was the hour of luncheon, and that she was no end better company than the revamped noon edition of the morning paper. Wherefore he wheeled into the store and interrupted her inspection of gloves.
“I know the bulliest little French restaurant tucked away in a side street just three blocks from here. The happiness disseminated in this world by that chef’s salads will some day carry him past St. Peter with no questions asked.”
“You believe in salvation by works?” she parried, while she considered his invitation.
“So will you after a trial of Alphonse’s salad.”
“Am I to understand that I am being invited to a theological discussion of a heavenly salad concocted by Father Alphonse?”
“That is about the specifications.”
“Then I accept. For a week my conscience has condemned me for excess of frivolity. You offer me a chance to expiate without discomfort. That is my idea of heaven. I have always believed it a place where one pastures in rich meadows of pleasure, with penalties and consciences all excluded from its domains.”
“You should start a church,” he laughed. “It would have a great following—especially if you could operate your heaven this side of the Styx.”
She found his restaurant all he had claimed, and more. The little corner of old Paris set her eyes shining. The fittings were Parisian to the least detail. Even the waiter spoke no English.