"Beef soup with vegetables. Cream of asparagus," I wrote. "Don't you think, Letitia, that one soup would have been enough--one thoroughly artistic and satisfactory soup?" "No, Archie," she responded with some asperity. "I hate pinning people down to one thing--taking a tailor-like measure of their tastes, as it were. Doesn't it all sound horrid in English?" she queried with a laugh. "One might really fancy a little _consommé julienne_, whereas beef soup with vegetables sounds absolutely tin-can-ny, and red-handkerchief-y." I thought of Letitia at the restaurant, just one hour previously, and realized what absolute hunger can do for a lissome little lady. "Just one _entrée_, Archie,"' said she, "merely _homard naturel_. Everybody likes it, and I prefer to class it as an _entrée_. I did think of having it _à la Newburg_, but it is a bit too heavy, don't you think, dear? I don't want our dinner to be a foody affair--" "Like that we have just finished," I interposed thoughtfully. "No," she agreed rather reluctantly. "We were both disgracefully hungry, and--and--you needn't keep discussing that meal, for it was a meal, and _not_ a dinner. Now, write down, please, as _entrée_, _homard naturel_." "Natural lobster," emerged from my pencil tip. "After that, a solid dish," Letitia declared. "You see, Archie, Mr. Tamworth is American, and we don't want to worry him with quail, or squab or little unsatisfactory game. I've thought it carefully over and it seems to me that a tiny, dainty _bifsteck aux pommes de terre_ will be energetic without being squalid. What say you, boy? Don't you agree with me?" "Beefsteak with potatoes," I wrote glibly, but even as my pencil framed the words, I shuddered. After our recent heavy dinner the thought of it seemed so arduous. Letitia understood. "You see, it's all due to the coarseness of the English language," she insisted, "and you must remember that you are Englishing it for Anna only. I wonder," she added pensively, "if Anna would make us some of those _soufflé_ potatoes--you know, Archie, those things that are all blown out, and that seem like eating fried air. They are most delicate. We used to have them every Sunday at the _pension_, in the Avenue du Roule. However, I won't tax the girl. Perhaps she may give us the potatoes in that style without being told. I fancy, dear, that she is going to surprise us. I dare say it will be a relief to her to see that we really know what good living is. I shall leave the potatoes to her." "We may as well give her a chance," I agreed. "Personally, I would just as soon have the potatoes _maître d'hôtel_. It is very likely that Anna will prefer that method, as it is more usual." "And after that," Letitia cried gaily, "nothing, but _glaces aux fraises_--" "Strawberry ices," I wrote. "And a _demi-tasse_."