This time he did not hesitate. The women of his acquaintance, at the dinner parties he attended, drank champagne. Why should he refuse it to this woman? A long-nosed, mediaeval-looking waiter was hovering about, one of those bizarre, battered creatures who have long exhausted the surprises of life, presiding over this amazing situation with all the sang froid of a family butler. Hodder told him to bring champagne.
"What kind, sir?" he asked, holding out a card.
"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.