“Whoa!” cried the driver, obedient to an exultant shout from the
impresario.
“But do you think they would take us _in_, just for _lunch_?” asked
Flora. “For you _see_ it isn’t really a _hotel_.”
“I know,” replied Mr. Curry confidently, “but it’s a canny Scotch name,
and I don’t think she’ll send us starving from her door.”
And sure enough, she didn’t. Mrs. Gilfillan turned out to be very
corpulent, very Victorian, and very canny. She took them right in, and
they sat together at one end of a long table, with all the fortunate
private boarders; and there was a genuine revolving pepper, salt,
vinegar, and oil “caster” in the centre of the table; and they ate
preserves out of tiny saucers of red glass with white scroll-work etched
around the rims.
Mr. Curry leaned over and said in a low voice: “Did you ever dream of
finding a place like this in the Philippines?” And Flora leaned over and
replied, in her rich way: “_Isn’t_ it the most absurd and delightful
place you ever _heard_ of?”
The driver had his luncheon too, elsewhere on the premises, and when the
romantic couple emerged on to the porch they found that he had piled Mr.
Curry’s bags beside the front door.
“Oh do _look_!” cried Flora.
“Good Lord! The fellow thought we’d decided to stop here for good!”
“It’s _really_ nice enough to ‘stop at’ for good, _isn’t_ it?” asked
Flora, laughing a little, but showing by her tone, as well as by a kind
of wishing look in her eyes that she honestly meant it.