"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed; "you'd be dead if you ate all
those things. Are they on the bill of fare? What is a 'Dewey Punch'?"

"Oh, I don't die so easily as that. Ethelyn and I used to eat worse mixes
than that, whenever we lunched at the New York restaurants, A Dewey Punch
is a lovely kind of ice cream with strawberry jam or something poured all
over it. I don't see it on the list; perhaps they don't have it. Never
mind, we'll take meringue glace."

"Indeed we won't. I've changed my mind and I'll order this dinner myself.
You shall have some soup, a broiled chicken, some vegetables and a plain
ice cream. There, how do you like that?"

Cousin Tom didn't speak crossly at all, but very decidedly, and there was a
pleasant twinkle in his eye that took away all idea of censure, so Patty
said, amiably:

"I think it will be very nice and I really don't care what we have, only
you told me to suggest something, so I did."

"Certainly, that's all right, but your suggestions were suicidal. Are you
familiar with Bacon?"

Oh, thought Patty, he's going to order the breakfast over night, and I hate
bacon.

"Yes," she said, "but I don't like it at all."

"You don't? What a perverted taste. But Boston will soon change that. We