"Don't stop over by that stuffy old table, Teddy. Come and sit by
these nice people!"

And that was an extraordinary thing to say. Quite extraordinary. I
couldn't for the life of me refer to total strangers as nice people.
But, of course, she was taking a line of her own in which I at any
rate--and no one else in the room, for she too had taken the
trouble to read through the list of guests--counted any more than
so many clean, bull terriers. And she sat down rather brilliantly at
a vacant table, beside ours--one that was reserved for the
Guggenheimers. And she just sat absolutely deaf to the
remonstrances of the head waiter with his face like a grey ram's.
That poor chap was doing his steadfast duty too. He knew that the
Guggenheimers of Chicago, after they had stayed there a month
and had worried the poor life out of him, would give him two
dollars fifty and grumble at the tipping system. And he knew that
Teddy Ashburnham and his wife would give him no trouble
whatever except what the smiles of Leonora might cause in his
apparently unimpressionable bosom--though you never can tell
what may go on behind even a not quite spotless plastron! --And
every week Edward Ashburnham would give him a solid, sound,
golden English sovereign. Yet this stout fellow was intent on
saving that table for the Guggenheimers of Chicago. It ended in
Florence saying:

"Why shouldn't we all eat out of the same trough? --that's a nasty
New York saying. But I'm sure we're all nice quiet people and
there can be four seats at our table. It's round."