Kedzie was thrilled at his autocratic manner. He scared off the ghost of Magruder. Ferriday pondered aloud the bill of fare as if it were the plot of a new feature film. “Capon en casserole, milk-fed guinea-hen escoffier, plover en cocotte, English golden pheasant, partridge--do any of those tiresome things interest you?” It was like asking her whether she would have a Gorham tea-set, a Balcom gown, or a Packard landaulet. She wanted them all. But her eyes caught the prices. Four dollars for an English pheasant! No wonder they called it golden. It seemed a shame, though, to stick such a nice man, after he had already ordered two dollars and a half's worth of caviar. She chose the cheapest thing. She was already falling in love with Ferriday. The plover was only a dollar. She was not quite sure what kind of animal it would turn out to be. She had a womanly intuition that it was a fowl of some breed. She wanted to know. She had come to the stomach school. “I think I'll take a bit of the plover,” she said. “Nice girl!” thought Ferriday, who recognized her vicarious economy. “Plover it is,” he said to the waiter, and added, “tell Pierre it's for me and he'd better not burn it again.” The waiter was crushed by Pierre's lapse, especially as the chef's name was Achille. Ferriday went on: “With the plover we might have some champignons frais sous cloche and a salade de laitue avec French dressing, yes? Then a substantial sweet: a coupe aux marrons or a nesselrode pudding, yes?” Kedzie wanted to ask for a plain, familiar vanilla ice-cream, but she knew better. She ordered the nesselrode--and got her ice-cream, after all. There were chestnuts in it, too--so she was glad she had not selected the coupe aux marrons. Ferriday did not take a sweet, but had a cheese instead, after an anxious debate with the waiter about the health of the Camembert and the decadence of the Roquefort. When this weighty matter was settled he returned to Kedzie: “Now for something to drink. A little sherry and bitters to begin with, of course; and a--oh, umm, let me see--simple things are best; suppose we stick to champagne.” He called it “shah pine,” according to Kedzie's ear, but she hoped he meant shampane. She had always wanted to taste “wealthy water,” as Gilfoyle called it, but never called for it. Kedzie was a trifle alarmed when Ferriday said: “I hope you don't like it sweet. It can't be too dry for me.” “Me, either,” Kedzie assured him--and made a face implying that she always took it in the form of a powder. Ferriday smiled benignly and said to the waiter: “You might bring us een boo-tay de Bollinger Numero--er--katter--vang--kanz.” He knew that the French for ninety-five was four-twenties-fifteen, but the waiter could not understand till he placed his finger on the number with his best French accent. He saved himself from collapse by a stern post-dictum: