Then she returned to the
menu, and with a pursing of lovely lips said that there appeared to
be nothing to eat.
'Sorry to keep you waiting, Nella.' It was Mr Racksole, the intrepid
millionaire who had dared to order an Angel Kiss in the
smoke-room of the Grand Babylon. Nella - her proper name was
Helen - smiled at her parent cautiously, reserving to herself the
right to scold if she should feel so inclined.
'You always are late, father,' she said.
'Only on a holiday,' he added. 'What is there to eat?'
'Nothing.'
'Then let's have it. I'm hungry. I'm never so hungry as when I'm
being seriously idle.'
'Consomm? Britannia,' she began to read out from the menu,
'Saumon d'Ecosse, Sauce Genoise, Aspics de Homard. Oh,
heavens! Who wants these horrid messes on a night like this?'
'But, Nella, this is the best cooking in Europe,' he protested.
'Say, father,' she said, with seeming irrelevance, 'had you forgotten
it's my birthday to-morrow?'
'Have I ever forgotten your birthday, O most costly daughter?'
'On the whole you've been a most satisfactory dad,' she answered
sweetly, 'and to reward you I'll be content this year with the
cheapest birthday treat you ever gave me. Only I'll have it to-night.'
'Well,' he said, with the long-suffering patience, the readiness for
any surprise, of a parent whom Nella had thoroughly trained, 'what
is it?'
'It's this.
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