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Page 24
There are all sorts of restaurants in London, from the restaurant
which makes you fancy you are in Paris to the restaurant which
makes you wish you were. There are palaces in Piccadilly, quaint
lethal chambers in Soho, and strange food factories in Oxford
Street and Tottenham Court Road. There are restaurants which
specialize in ptomaine and restaurants which specialize in
sinister vegetable messes. But there is only one Simpson's.
Simpson's, in the Strand, is unique. Here, if he wishes, the
Briton may for the small sum of half a dollar stupefy himself
with food. The god of fatted plenty has the place under his
protection. Its keynote is solid comfort.
It is a pleasant, soothing, hearty place--a restful temple of
food. No strident orchestra forces the diner to bolt beef in
ragtime. No long central aisle distracts his attention with its
stream of new arrivals. There he sits, alone with his food, while
white-robed priests, wheeling their smoking trucks, move to and
fro, ever ready with fresh supplies.
All round the room--some at small tables, some at large tables
--the worshipers sit, in their eyes that resolute, concentrated
look which is the peculiar property of the British luncher,
ex-President Roosevelt's man-eating fish, and the American army
worm.
Conversation does not flourish at Simpson's. Only two of all
those present on this occasion showed any disposition toward
chattiness. They were Aline Peters and her escort.
"The girl you ought to marry," Aline was saying, "is Joan
Valentine."
"The girl I am going to marry," said George Emerson, "is Aline
Peters."
For answer, Aline picked up from the floor beside her an
illustrated paper and, having opened it at a page toward the end,
handed it across the table.
George Emerson glanced at it disdainfully. There were two
photographs on the page. One was of Aline; the other of a heavy,
loutish-looking youth, who wore that expression of pained
glassiness which Young England always adopts in the face of a
camera.
Under one photograph were printed the words: "Miss Aline Peters,
who is to marry the Honorable Frederick Threepwood in June";
under the other: "The Honorable Frederick Threepwood, who is to
marry Miss Aline Peters in June." Above the photographs was the
legend: "Forthcoming International Wedding. Son of the Earl of
Emsworth to marry American heiress." In one corner of the picture
a Cupid, draped in the Stars and Stripes, aimed his bow at the
gentleman; in the other another Cupid, clad in a natty Union
Jack, was drawing a bead on the lady.
The subeditor had done his work well. He had not been ambiguous.
What he intended to convey to the reader was that Miss Aline
Peters, of America, was going to marry the Honorable Frederick
Threepwood, son of the Earl of Emsworth; and that was exactly the
impression the average reader got.
George Emerson, however, was not an average reader. The
subeditor's work did not impress him.
"You mustn't believe everything you see in the papers," he said.
"What are the stout children in the one-piece bathing suits
supposed to be doing?"
"Those are Cupids, George, aiming at us with their little bow--
a pretty and original idea."
"Why Cupids?"
"Cupid is the god of love."
"What has the god of love got to do with it?"
Aline placidly devoured a fried potato. "You're simply trying to
make me angry," she said; "and I call it very mean of you. You
know perfectly well how fatal it is to get angry at meals. It was
eating while he was in a bad temper that ruined father's
digestion. George, that nice, fat carver is wheeling his truck
this way. Flag him and make him give me some more of that
mutton."
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