Ida was talking away endlessly about a kindergarten in which she had
substituted the last week.
She told him about the funny little nigger girl, and about the games and
songs and how they played birds and hopped around and cried, "Twit,
twit," and the game of the butterflies visiting the flowers. She even
sang part of a song about the waves.
"Every little wave had its night-cap on;
Its white-cap, night-cap, white-cap on."
"It's more _fun_ than enough," she said.
"Say, Ida," interrupted Vandover at length, "I'm pretty hungry. Can't we
go somewhere and eat something? I'd like a Welsh rabbit."
"All right," she answered. "Where do you want to go?"
"Well," replied Vandover, running over in his mind the places he might
reach by unfrequented streets. "There's Marchand's or Tortoni's or the
Poodle Dog."
"Suits _me_," she answered, "any one you like. Say, Van," she added,
"weren't you boys at the Imperial the other night? What kind of a place
is that?"
On the instant Vandover wondered what she could mean. Was it possible
that Ida would go to a place like that with him?
"The Imperial?" he answered.
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