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"Bourma.... That's awful nice. With honey. And do try some of the stuffed peppers and rice." "All right," said Theresa, gloomily. Somehow Mr. Wrenn wasn't vastly transformed even by the possession of the two thousand dollars her mother had reported. He was still "funny and sort of scary," not like the overpowering Southern gentlemen she supposed she remembered. Also, she was hungry.
Wrenn did not see that she was glancing about discontentedly, for he was delightedly listening to a lanky young man at the next table who was remarking to his vis-a-vis, a pale slithey lady in black, with the lines of a torpedo-boat: "Try some of the stuffed vine-leaves, child of the angels, and some wheat pilaf and some bourma.
Your wheat pilaf is a comfortable food and cheering to the stomach of man. Simply won-derful. As for the bourma, he is a merry beast, a brown rose of pastry with honey cunningly secreted between his petals and Here! Waiter! Stuffed vine-leaves, wheat p'laf, bourm' twice on the order and hustle it."
Ain't he great! Golly! look at that beak of his. Don't he make you think of kiosks and hyrems and stuff? Gee! What does he make you think " "He's got on a dirty collar.... That waiter's awful slow.... Would you please be so kind and pour me another glass of water?" But when she reached the honied bourma she grew tolerant toward Mr. Wrenn.
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