"His little supper will stand him in about fifteen dollars," estimated Billy, with deep interest. "He's ordering champagne,-- it'll stand him in thirty. Gosh!"
"What would you order if you could, Bill?" Susan asked. It was all part of their usual program.
"Planked steak," answered Billy, readily.
"Planked steak," Susan hunted for it, "would it be three dollars?" she asked, awed.
"That's it."
"I'd have breast of hen pheasant with Virginia ham," Susan decided. A moment later her roving eye rested on a group at a nearby table, and, with the pleased color rushing into her race, she bowed to one of the members of the party.
"That's Miss Emily Saunders," said Susan, in a low voice. "Don't look now--now you can look. Isn't she sweet?"
Miss Saunders, beautifully gowned, was sitting with an old man, an elderly woman, a handsome, very stout woman of perhaps forty, and a very young man. She was a pale, rather heavy girl, with prominent eyes and smooth skin. Susan thought her very aristocratic looking.
"Me for the fat one," said Billy simply. "Who's she?"
"I don't know. DON'T let them see us looking, Bill!" Susan brought her gaze suddenly back to her own table, and began a conversation.
There were some rolls on a plate, between them, but there was no butter on the table. Their order had not yet been served.
"We want some butter here," said Billy, as Susan took a roll, broke it in two, and laid it down again.
"Oh, don't bother, Bill! I don't honestly want it!" she protested.
"Rot!" said William. "He's got a right to bring it!" In a moment a head-waiter was bending over them, his eyes moving rapidly from one to the other, under contracted brows.
"Butter, please," said William briskly.
"Beg pardon?"
"BUTTER. We've no butter."
"Oh, certainly!" He was gone in a second, and in another the butter was served, and Susan and Billy began on the rolls.
"Here comes Miss---, your friend," said William presently.
Susan whirled. Miss Saunders and the very young man were looking toward their table, as they went out. Catching Susan's eye, they came over to shake hands.
"How do you do, Miss Brown?" said the young woman easily. "My cousin, Mr. Brice. He's nicer than he looks. Mr. Oliver? Were you at the Columbia?"
"We were--How do you do? No, we weren't at the Columbia," Susan stammered, confused by the other's languid ease of manner, by the memory of the playhouse they had attended, and by the arrival of the sardines and ginger-ale, which were just now placed on the table.