There were some rolls on a plate, between them, but there was no butter on the table.  Their order had not yet been served.

“We want some butter here,” said Billy, as Susan took a roll, broke it in two, and laid it down again.

“Oh, don’t bother, Bill!  I don’t honestly want it!” she protested.

“Rot!” said William.  “He’s got a right to bring it!” In a moment a head-waiter was bending over them, his eyes moving rapidly from one to the other, under contracted brows.

“Butter, please,” said William briskly.

“Beg pardon?”

“Butter.  We’ve no butter.”

“Oh, certainly!” He was gone in a second, and in another the butter was served, and Susan and Billy began on the rolls.

“Here comes Miss—–­, your friend,” said William presently.

Susan whirled.  Miss Saunders and the very young man were looking toward their table, as they went out.  Catching Susan’s eye, they came over to shake hands.

“How do you do, Miss Brown?” said the young woman easily.  “My cousin, Mr. Brice.  He’s nicer than he looks.  Mr. Oliver?  Were you at the Columbia?”

“We were—­How do you do?  No, we weren’t at the Columbia,” Susan stammered, confused by the other’s languid ease of manner, by the memory of the playhouse they had attended, and by the arrival of the sardines and ginger-ale, which were just now placed on the table.

“I’m coming to take you to lunch with me some day, remember,” said Miss Saunders, departing.  And she smiled another farewell from the door.

“Isn’t she sweet?” said Susan.

“And how well she would come along just as our rich and expensive order is served!” Billy added, and they both laughed.

“It looks good to me!” Susan assured him contentedly.  “I’ll give you half that other sandwich if you can tell me what the orchestra is playing now.”

“The slipper thing, from ’Boheme’,” Billy said scornfully.  Susan’s eyes widened with approval and surprise.  His appreciation of music was an incongruous note in Billy’s character.

There was presently a bill to settle, which Susan, as became a lady, seemed to ignore.  But she could not long ignore her escort’s scowling scrutiny of it.

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Oliver, scowling at the card.  “Twenty cents for what?”

“For bread and butter, sir,” said the waiter, in a hoarse, confidential whisper.  “Not served with sandwiches, sir.”  Susan’s heart began to thump.

“Billy—­” she began.

“Wait a minute,” Billy muttered.  “Just wait a minute!  It doesn’t say anything about that.”

The waiter respectfully indicated a line on the menu card, which Mr. Oliver studied fixedly, for what seemed to Susan a long time.

“That’s right,” he said finally, heavily, laying a silver dollar on the check.  Keep it.”  The waiter did not show much gratitude for his tip.  Susan and Billy, ruffled and self-conscious, walked, with what dignity they could, out into the night.