LUNCHEON Á LA FEMME.
Time.—One o'clock p.m.——Place.—Fashionable Restaurant.
| Brown Tailor-Made Girl. | ||
| Dramatis Personæ. | Gray Tailor-Made Girl. | |
| Patient Waiter. |
[The young women being advantageously seated, extra wraps and bundles disposed of, Patient Waiter. fills their glasses, and lays menu before them. Neither glances at it.]
Brown Tailor-Made Girl.—I declare, I didn't know I was so tired.
Gray Tailor-Made Girl.—Nor I. It's so horrid to match goods.
Brown.—Dreadful. I'd rather buy material for three new dresses than renovate one old one.
Gray.—So should I. I'm in such a quandary about that silk at Cash's. Did it seem to you to match at all?
[Patient Waiter goes off to seat a new-comer. A man.]
Brown.—Why, I thought it was quite the nearest of any we have seen yet.
Gray.—Did you, really? I am in such a dilemma about it, and I must send it down to Whalebone to-day, or she will disappoint me.
Brown.—Yes, the wretch! How quickly she takes advantage of a little delay in that way!
Gray —Yes, indeed. She kept me waiting three weeks last winter, for a pink tulle, because I was one day late in sending word whether I wanted a pointed or square bodice.
[Patient Waiter, having taken man's order to the kitchen, returns.]
Brown.—Well, I suppose we must have some luncheon. [Pulls menu toward her.] What do you want, Nell?
Gray.—Oh, I don't know. What are you going to have?
Brown.—I don't know. I am not very hungry.
Gray.—Nor I. I breakfasted late, and don't feel as if I could eat a thing.
Brown (pushing the card across the table).—Do pick out something, Nell. I can't.
Gray.—Well, I can't, either. I never do know what to take.
[Patient Waiter retires and serves man's order. Then he returns.]
Gray (still studying card).—Do you like oysters.
Brown.—Not much. I get tired of them.
Gray.—Well, I don't know but I do, too. At any rate, we won't take an oyster-stew, for they only serve crackers with that, and the bread here is just lovely.
Brown.—Isn't it! I can make a lunch off their bread and butter.
[Patient Waiter shifts from the left to the right leg.]
Gray.—How would a chicken-croquette go?
Brown (not sure whether it's Dutch treat or not).—Oh, don't let's take croquettes. We'll be sure to have them to-night at the Millers'.
Gray.—That's so. Oh, dear, what do I want? I believe I'll take some cream-hashed potatoes.
Brown.—So will I—and we'll have a cup of chocolate.
Gray.—Yes, that will do nicely. [To Patient Waiter.] Bring us two cream-hashed potatoes and two cups of chocolate.
Patient Waiter.—Yes, madam; and bread?
Gray.—Of course, bread.
Patient Waiter.—Bread is only served with a meat order. Not with potatoes alone.
Gray.—Oh, is that so? Then I don't care for potatoes.
Brown.—Nor I, either. I do love the bread here.
Gray (resuming her study of the card).—Oh, bother! let's take some consommé.
Brown.—All right.
Gray.—But we don't want chocolate with soup.
Brown.—Oh, no.
Gray.—Well, we won't take chocolate, then, but we can have some ice-cream afterward if we want it.
Brown.—Very well.
Gray (to Patient Waiter).—Bring two consommés.
[Three-quarters of an hour later.]
Brown (finishing the last morsel of bread and a long story at the same moment).—And from that day to this I have never even bowed to her.
Gray.—You did perfectly right. She was horridly rude—in her own house, too.
Patient Waiter (approaching for the tenth time).—Do you wish anything more?
Brown (looking at her friend).—I really don't believe I care for anything more—the soup is so hearty.
Gray.—Nor I, either. Besides, we must hurry.
[Patient Waiter vanishes and returns with the check, which he discreetly lays midway between the two.]
Gray (buttoning her glove).—This is mine, Kate.
Brown.—Oh, no, indeed, Nell. You must let me pay.
Gray.—Not at all. You came out to shop with me.
Brown.—Oh, you forget I have several errands of my own.
Gray.—Oh, I really insist. [Finishes her glove and draws check over. It is forty cents, and she lays a half-dollar on the tray.] Are you sure you didn't want anything more?
Brown.—Oh, no, indeed. I have eaten all I possibly could.
[Patient Waiter returns with two nickels and retires to a convenient distance.]
Gray (pocketing the nickels).—Do you know, I think it's sort of fast for girls alone to fee waiters.
Brown.—So do I. I rarely do.
Gray.—Well, let us make haste. We really have no time to lose.
[Then the dear girls trot off to Cash's, and Gray pays sixteen dollars the yard for trimming to renovate the old dress.]
