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And she, gracious girl, with the hospitality of a duchess, she says:
“I think gold chairs should be reserved for that purpose exclusively.”
I don’t believe that the princess who was giving tea to the chiropodist at a charity bazaar, and promptly broke her own saucer and exclaimed, “How brittle they are!” when the unlucky foot artist thrust his elbow through a piece of royal porcelain — I don’t believe that that princess was kinder than, and surely not so witty as Jane Cowl is when she puts gold chairs in their proper place to make my poor pipe and me feel comfortable at her feast.
And yet she tells you that she doesn’t know how to be interviewed by a chap like me (who gets so much serious theater when he’s firstnighting that he sometimes believes the queens of the stage should write it themselves when they have solemn inspirations on the subject of The Drama). Yes, Jane says she fears she’s not the sort of person that makes good reading next to pure Lardner — or words to that effect.
“I’m afraid of you when you ‘kid’,” she says — while I’m trying to make out which fork goes with fish with fried almonds on it.
“How do you figure forks?” I ask, helplessly — both the master waiter and just the waiter are beyond hearing.
“Work from left to right and let the knives take care of themselves — only that silver dirk is your butter knife,” my perfect hostess answers — and you feel sure that she will keep your secret.
“What’s the name of the fish?” you whisper.
“Pompano,” says Jane, very softly; the master waiter is near.