“Have you lunched here yet?”
“No. Why?”
“They have waitresses instead of waiters.”
“Good Lord! I thought that went out with the armistice.” Bingo mused a moment, straightening his tie absently. “Er—pretty girls?” he said.
“No.”
He seemed disappointed, but pulled round.
“Well, I’ve heard that the cooking’s the best in London.”
“So they say. Shall we be going in?”
“All right. I expect,” said young Bingo, “that at the end of the meal—or possibly at the beginning—the waitress will say, ‘Both together, sir?’ Reply in the affirmative. I haven’t a bean.”
“Hasn’t your uncle forgiven you yet?”
“Not yet, confound him!”
I was sorry to hear the row was still on. I resolved to do the poor old thing well at the festive board, and I scanned the menu with some intentness when the girl rolled up with it.
“How would this do you, Bingo?” I said at length. “A few plovers’ eggs to weigh in with, a cup of soup, a touch of cold salmon, some cold curry, and a splash of gooseberry tart and cream with a bite of cheese to finish?”
I don’t know that I had expected the man actually to scream with delight, though I had picked the items from my knowledge of his pet dishes, but I had expected him to say something. I looked up, and found