20 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
"Not if you'd rather not," Scripps said. "By the way, could I have another order of beans?"
"Best by test," the waitress smiled. Her face was lined and gray. She looks a little like that actress that died in Pittsburgh. What was her name? Lenore Ulric. In Peter Pan. That was it. They say she always went about veiled, Scripps thought. There was an interesting woman. Was it Lenore Ulric? Perhaps not. No matter.
"You really want some more beans?" asked the waitress.
"Yes," Scripps answered simply.
"Once again on the loud ones," the waitress called into the wicket. "Lay off the bird."
"On the fire," came the response.
"Please go on with your story," Scripps said kindly.
"It was the year of the Paris Exposition," she began. "I was a young girl at the time, a jeune fille, and I came over from England with my mother. We were going to be present at the opening of the exposition. On our way from the Gare du Nord to the hotel in the Place Vendôme where we lodged, we stopped at a coiffeur's shop and made some trifling purchase. My mother, as I recall, purchased an additional bottle of 'smelling salts,' as you call them here in America."
She smiled.
"Yes, go on. Smelling salts," Scripps said.
"We registered, as is customary, in the hotel, and were given the adjoining rooms we had reserved. My mother felt a bit done in by the trip, and we dined in our rooms. I was full of excitement about seeing the exposition on the morrow. But I was tired after the journey—we had had a rather nasty crossing—and slept soundly. In the
