“The best you have.”
The woman stared at him in wonder.
“You're what an English Johnny I know would call a little bit of all right!” she declared with enthusiastic approval.
“Since you are hungry,” he went on, “suppose you have something more substantial than sandwiches. What would you like?”
She did not answer at once. Amazement grew in her eyes, amazement and a kind of fear.
“Quit joshing!” she implored him, and he found it difficult to cope with her style of conversation. For a while she gazed helplessly at the bill of fare.
“I guess you'll think it's funny,” she said hesitatingly, “but I feel just like a good beefsteak and potatoes. Bring a thick one, Walter.”
The waiter sauntered off.
“Why should I think it strange?” Hodder asked.
“Well, if you knew how many evenings I've sat up there in my room and thought what I'd order if I ever again got hold of some rich guy who'd loosen up. There ain't any use trying to put up a bluff with you. Nothing was too good for me once, caviar, pate de foie gras” (her pronunciation is not to be imitated), “chicken casserole, peach Melba, filet of beef with mushrooms,—I've had 'em all, and I used to sit up and say I'd hand out an order like that. You never do what you think you're going to do in this life.”