Thereat, presently, after a scurry through sunshine and streets, Sherry’s was reached.
There Annandale wanted to order a châteaubriand. The girls rebelled. A maître d’hôtel suggested melons and a suprême with a bombe to follow.
Annandale turned to him severely. “Ferdinand, I object to your telling me what you want me to eat.”
“Let me order,” said Sylvia. “Fanny, what would you like?”
“Cucumbers, asparagus, strawberries.”
“Chicken?”
Fanny nodded.
“Yes,” said Annandale to the chastened waiter, “order that and some moselle, and I want a Scotch and soda. There’s Orr,” he interrupted himself to announce. “I wonder what he is doing uptown? And there’s Loftus.”
At the mention of Orr, Fanny, who had been eying an adjacent gown, evinced no interest. But at the mention of Loftus she glanced about the room.
It was large, high-ceiled, peopled with actresses and men-about-town, smart women and stupid boys, young girls and old beaux. From a balcony there dripped the twang of mandolins. In the air was the savor of pineapple, the smell of orris, the odor of food and flowers.
On entering Sylvia had stopped to say a word at one table, Fanny had loitered at another. Then in their trip to a table already reserved, a trip conducted by the maître d’hôtel whom Annandale had rebuked, murmurs trailed after them, the echo of their names, observations