"
She chose a table that had several other vacant tables round
it. On the recommendation of the waiter she ordered a "burning
devil"; he assured her she would find it delicious and the
very thing for a cold slushy night. At the far end of the room
on a low platform sat the orchestra. A man in an evening suit
many sizes too large for him sang in a strong, not disagreeable
tenor a German song that drew loud applause at the end of each
stanza. The "burning devil" came--an almost black mixture in
a large heavy glass. The waiter touched a match to it, and it
was at once wreathed in pale flickering flames that hovered
like butterflies, now rising as if to float away, now lightly
descending to flit over the surface of the liquid or to dance
along the edge of the glass.
"What shall I do with it?" said Susan.
"Wait till it goes out," said the waiter. "Then drink, as you
would anything else." And he was off to attend to the wants of
a group of card players a few feet away.
Susan touched her finger to the glass, when the flame suddenly
vanished. She found it was not too hot to drink, touched her
lips to it. The taste, sweetish, suggestive of coffee and of
brandy and of burnt sugar, was agreeable. She slowly sipped
it, delighting in the sensation of warmth, of comfort, of well
being that speedily diffused through her. The waiter came to
receive her thanks for his advice.
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