"Quit joshing!" she implored him, and he found it difficult to cope with
her style of conversation. For a while she gazed helplessly at the bill
of fare.

"I guess you'll think it's funny," she said hesitatingly, "but I feel
just like a good beefsteak and potatoes. Bring a thick one, Walter."

The waiter sauntered off.

"Why should I think it strange?" Hodder asked.

"Well, if you knew how many evenings I've sat up there in my room and
thought what I'd order if I ever again got hold of some rich guy who'd
loosen up. There ain't any use trying to put up a bluff with you.
Nothing was too good for me once, caviar, pate de foie gras" (her
pronunciation is not to be imitated), "chicken casserole, peach Melba,
filet of beef with mushrooms,--I've had 'em all, and I used to sit up and
say I'd hand out an order like that. You never do what you think you're
going to do in this life."

The truth of this remark struck him with a force she did not suspect;
stung him, as it were, into a sense of reality.

"And now," she added pathetically, "all t want is a beefsteak! Don't
that beat you?"

She appeared so genuinely surprised at this somewhat contemptible trick
fate had played her that Hodder smiled in spite of himself.