"Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu.
"Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson's. It's not a bit the thing to go for here."
"Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously.
"Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection: "and cider to drink. That's the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Margaret, who didn't. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox's direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn't; yes, you did" type—conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.
"It's a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere's my motto."
"Perhaps it does make life more human."
"Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year's end to year's end."
"Have you been in the East?"
"Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one's memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How's your discussion society getting on? Any new utopias lately?"
"No, I'm house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I've already told you once. Do you know of any houses?"
"Afraid I don't."
"Well, what's the point of being practical if you can't find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them."
