Ninian had a boyish pride in his knowledge of places to eat in many cities—as if he were leading certain of the tribe to a deer-run in a strange wood. Ninian took his party to a downtown café, then popular among business and newspaper men. The place was below the sidewalk, was reached by a dozen marble steps, and the odour of its griddle-cakes took the air of the street. Ninian made a great show of selecting a table, changed once, called the waiter "my man" and rubbed soft hands on "What do you say? Shall it be lobster?" He ordered the dinner, instructing the waiter with painstaking gruffness.
"Not that they can touch your cooking here, Miss Lulu," he said, settling himself to wait, and crumbling a crust.
Dwight, expanding a bit in the aura of the food, observed that Lulu was a regular chef, that was what Lulu was. He still would not look at his wife, who now remarked:
"Sheff, Dwightie. Not cheff."
This was a mean advantage, which he pretended not to hear—another mean advantage.
"Ina," said Lulu, "your hat's just a little mite—no, over the other way."
"Was there anything to prevent your speaking of that before?" Ina inquired acidly.
"I started to and then somebody always said something," said Lulu humbly.
Nothing could so much as cloud Lulu's hour. She was proof against any shadow.
"Say, but you look tremendous to-night," Dwight observed to her.