by smoking cigarettes. Here prosperous Oriental merchants,
of mild natures and bandit faces, drink semi-liquid Turkish
coffee and discuss rugs and revolutions.

In fact, the place seemed so unartificial that Theresa, facing
Mr. Wrenn, was bored. And the menu was foreign without being
Society viands. It suggested rats' tails and birds' nests, she
was quite sure. She would gladly have experimented with _pate
de foie gras_ or alligator-pears, but what social prestige was
there to be gained at the factory by remarking that she "always
did like _pahklava_"? Mr. Wrenn did not see that she was
glancing about discontentedly, for he was delightedly listening
to a lanky young man at the next table who was remarking to his
_vis-a-vis_, a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines of a
torpedo-boat: "Try some of the stuffed vine-leaves, child of
the angels, and some wheat _pilaf_ and some _bourma_. Your wheat
_pilaf_ is a comfortable food and cheering to the stomach of man.
Simply _won_-derful. As for the _bourma_, he is a merry beast, a
brown rose of pastry with honey cunningly secreted between his
petals and--Here! Waiter! Stuffed vine-leaves, wheat _p'laf,
bourm'_--twice on the order and hustle it."

"When you get through listening to that man--he talks like a bar
of soap--tell me what there is on this bill of fare that's safe
to eat," snorted Theresa.

"I thought he was real funny," insisted Mr. Wrenn.... "I'm sure
you'll like _shish kebab_ and s--"

"_Shish kibub!_ Who ever heard of such a thing! Haven't they