one day not long ago, as she was taking an airing, and had a little chat with her. She — she complained about your appetite, Mr. Sands. She said you ate so little that she felt you were not satisfied with what she provided, and so I asked her why she didn’t get you to do the ordering. Later, I was sorry that I had interfered. After all, it was none of my business, was it?”
“No,” said I. (After all, it wasn’t.)
“I am very sorry,” said Miss Berrith, quietly.
We were finishing the cheese course and I was eating my last biscuit — one of the soda kind that is so dry and hard to swallow. It was that which made me choke a little.
“That was rude of me,” I added presently, “but I didn’t mean it to be. Of course it was very nice of you to take an interest.”
Then, on an impulse which I should have found it hard to explain, I gave her the details of my misadventures with the bill-of-
