find words for what she felt. After all, she was a woman now, not a schoolgirl. Perhaps Simone only had been polite in asking her to stay. You couldn't tell because her moods changed. She'd be pleasant and the next minute she seemed to hate the sight of you. But that must be imagination. Why would Simone hate her? It was exciting though, as if one were on the verge of an important discovery.
They sat nervously awaiting forgotten butter. Simone decided to open the champagne herself. The effort expended to release the cork relieved her tension and, discovering the wine Piselli had sent unexpectedly good, she became gay. But, after declaring herself famished, she ate almost nothing. Lucy always marveled at how people wasted food in New York, especially those of Figente's world. The surfeit of Figente's table never failed to arouse her wonder of the world in which food was not sustenance but something to toy with. She and Mother often had squandered earnings on luxuries but wasting food, as some people did in cutting off the crusts to make sandwiches, was a sin. She ate, chewing slowly because it was good for you.
"Have you ever noticed," she said, to say something, "that restaurant and hotel tablecloths are always more full of crumbs than at home? I guess it's the hard French rolls."
"Ah, but they are not French. What you call French here is not French at all," Simone defended la cuisine Française. "Me, I prefer here the so soft bread. I find it quite delicious—but not grilled as it is for the breakfast. Toast I abhor." This sentiment transferred itself to the waiter who at last arrived to perform the ritual of the dessert. "Even," she accused, "crepes suzette are not properly prepared. Too heavy."
The waiter who was from Bordeaux looked at her sullenly. The guests he preferred were Americans, they feared waiters. They were not fussy and moreover, like the Texan in 912, were not above offering a drink with a big tip. Only a compatriot would think to keep her liquor locked. "Mademoiselle is an artist," he said obsequiously, vowing to spit in her soup the next time she made trouble.
"These are delicious, aren't you going to eat yours?" Lucy asked when he had left.
"No, I have not the stomach for such richness," Simone said as, refilling their champagne glasses, she added the green mint to hers. Her fingers tapped the table. "Don't hurry, child," she said, though the girl's slowness was getting on her nerves. "In Paris we have desserts more delightful than this," she said, with a ravishing smile.
