street.

"So do I. We have that table at Harvey's."

"I know; but--"

"That's a fact," he put in. "I mentioned her name. We can't very well go
there without her."

"And all dressed up like a pair of goats."

"No."

"There's always the hotel."

"I don't want to go back there--not now."

"Neither do I. Let's make it the Shoreham," I suggested as we emerged
upon the street.

"All right." Then, looking across the sidewalk, he added: "There's that
damned taxi!"

"Yes. We'll drive around there in it."

"No," said he, "send it away. I don't feel like riding."

We walked to the Shoreham. The cafe looked cheerful, as it always does.
We ordered an extensive supper. It was good. There were pretty women in
the room, but we looked at them with the austere eyes of disillusioned
men, and talked cynically of life. I cannot recall any of the things we
said, though I remember thinking at the time that both of us were being
rather brilliant, in an icy way. I suppose it was mainly about women.
That was to be expected. Women, indeed! What were women to us? Nothing!
And pretty women, least of all. Ah, pretty women! Pretty women!... Yes,
yes!

I had ordered fruit to finish off the meal, and I remember that as the
dish was set upon the table, it occurred to me that we had made a very
pleasant party of it after all.

"Do you know," I said, as I helped myself to some hothouse grapes, "I've
had a bully evening. It has been fine to sit here and have a party all
to ourselves. I'm not so sorry that she did not come!"

Then I ate a grape or two.

They were very handsome grapes, but they were sour.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LEGACY OF HATE

... Immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.

--PARADISE LOST.

The last time I went abroad, a Briton on the boat told me a story about
an American tourist who asked an old English gardener how they made such
splendid lawns over there.

"First we cut the grass," said the gardener, "and then we roll it. Then
we cut it, and then we roll it."

"That's just what we do," said the American.

"Ah," returned the gardener, "but over here we've been doing it five
hundred years!"

In Liverpool another Englishman told me the same story. Three or four
others told it to me in London. In Kent I heard it twice, and in Sussex
five or six times. After going to Oxford and the Thames I lost count.

In the South my companion and I had a similar experience with the story
abo