"Don't you?" she said indulgently, as if saying, "Well, I know one, at
any rate."

"They say," he continued, "that there is no butter used in this place
that costs less than three shillings a pound."

"_No_ butter costs them three shillings a pound," said she.

"Not in London," said he. "They have it from Paris."

"And do you believe that?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, I don't. Any one that pays more than one-and-nine a pound for
butter, _at the most_, is a fool, if you'll excuse me saying the word.
Not but what this is good butter. I couldn't get as good in Putney for
less than eighteen pence."

She made him feel like a child who has a great deal to pick up from a
kindly but firm sister.

"No, thank you," she said, a little dryly, to the waiter who proffered a
further supply of chip potatoes.

"Now don't say they're cold," Priam laughed.

And she laughed also. "Shall I tell you one thing that puts me against
these restaurants?" she went on. "It's the feeling you have that you