Given legs eighteen inches longer and an
equator befitting the role, he would make the best Falstaff of our
generation. Even as he stands, he would do wonders with Bob Acres--and
I'd give four dollars any day to see him play Marguerite Gautier.

But enough of theatres! There are two night restaurants in London
which should be mentioned here. Let what little fame they may attain
from being set down in these pages be theirs. They more nearly
approximate to youthful whole-heartedness than any institutions in the
city. Perhaps this is because they are so distinctly Continental,
because they are almost stripped of anything (save the language spoken)
which savours of London and the British temperament. They are the Villa
Villa, at 37 Gerrard Street (once the residence of Edmund Burke), and
Maxim's, at 30 Wardour Street. Their reputations are far from spotless,
and English society gives them a wide berth. Because of this they have
become the meeting place of clandestine lovers. Here is the genuine
laughter and the wayward noise of youth. Nine out of every ten of their
patrons are young, and four out of every five of the girls are pretty.
Music is continuous and lively, and they possess an intimacy found only
in Parisian cafes. Do I imply that they are free from sordidness and
commercialism? They are not. Far from it. There is no night life in
London entirely free from these two disintegrating factors. But their
simulacrum of gaiety is far from obvious. When the fifteen-minute
warning for evacuation is given a good-natured cheer goes up, and a peal
of laughter which shakes the chandeliers and drowns out the musicians.
The crowd at least sees the humour of the closing law, and, being unable
to repeal it, laughs at it. In the Villa Villa and Maxim's, hands meet
lingeringly over the table; faces are near together; and a public stolen
kiss is not a rarity. When the doors of these restaurants are locked on
a deserted room the exiles do not go decorously and dolorously home. In
another hour you will see many of these same couples dancing at the
supper clubs.

Here we are again in Signor Bolis's establishment--which means that we
have made the round.... Elsie is yawning. I, too, am tired of the dance
and sick of the taste of champagne. I motion the waiter and pay the
bill. I draw Elsie's long coat about her, and we pass out into the clear
London night. We walk home circuitously--down Cranbourn Street and into
Charing Cross Road where