T told her that in England a lettuce is not called a salad until it is lying in a bowl with tomatoes, dressing and cold vegetables left over from yesterday's dinner. In America the smallest unplucked lettuce can boast the name of "salad."
I helped Mary Alice—that was her name—collect her many parcels, and led her to the snack-bar.
"What a morning" she rambled on. "Gee, having an apartment—I mean a fat—in Paris was easy compared to housekeeping here. At least you know that you're going to be misunderstood in France; and in this at that old lady counting her cherry stones. She has only four or five—she ought to make a complaint. You English are terribly stingy with fruit, and when you do eat it you stew it all up so that you can't recognize it. We practically live on fruit in the summer, and I couldn't live a day without my morning mixture of orange and lemon juice. That reminds me, where can I get some ice Can you imagine—our apartment has no refrigerator.
"Try the fishmonger's," I suggested. "The fish—? Oh, I couldn't do it Haven't you any iceman in this city?
A few minutes later she rushed off, saying that she was late for an appointment. At the door she turned and dashed back to me. "Tell me, honey, what is a char'? The landlady said shed get one for us, and we don't know whether we have enough room for it—with all our trunks and things."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.