You know Mr. Lorillard?
Certainly, madame.
Well, I am Mrs. Lorillard. This is the Duchess of Manchester. She is studying Coney Island for her book on America, and it is her fancy to dress like this. . . . Shall we go to the . . . ? She named another hotel nearby.
Certainly not, Mrs. Lorillard. The man became obsequious at once. Come right in here, of course. He led them to a table near the window.
What do you want to eat? asked Paul.
Steak, pork chops, ham and eggs. . . . Whether from lack of breath or lack of imagination the girl did not make the list longer.
Campaspe turned to the waiter. Bring her a glass of milk and some toast and be quick about it. The girl is starving. Then to the pseudo-enchantress of serpents: You can't have everything you want now. You're not strong enough to eat it. It would make you ill. Now don't talk any more till you've swallowed some food.
The girl obeyed and remained silent, but her great green eyes wandered curiously from face to face. When, after a very short interval, the waiter returned with the order, she drank the milk at a single gulp, and crunched the toast between her strong young jaws with an intensity which betokened anxiety lest the food should be removed before she could dispatch it. Campaspe and the boys were
