"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."
The truth of this remark struck him with a force she did not suspect; stung him, as it were, into a sense of reality.
"And now," she added pathetically, "all t want is a beefsteak! Don't that beat you?"
She appeared so genuinely surprised at this somewhat contemptible trick fate had played her that Hodder smiled in spite of himself.
"I didn't recognize you at first in that get-up," she observed, looking at his blue serge suit. "So you've dropped the preacher business, have you? You're wise, all right."
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
"Didn't I tell you when you came 'round that time that you weren't like the rest of 'em? You're too human."
Once more the word, and on her lips, startled him.
"Some of the best men I have ever known, the broadest and most understanding men, have been clergymen," he found himself protesting.