dding heads, a worn-out face, saying with determination, "I WILL
be gay!" Perhaps you have seen the pictures of those luxuriously
upholstered and appointed establishments: music, gaiety, sparkle, fine
dresses, costume songs, tangos, smart conversation and faces, and all
the rest of it. But the real thing.... Imagine a lot of dishevelled
girls pouring into a stuffy room after the theatre, looking already
fatigued, but bracing themselves to dance and eat and drink and talk
until--as I have seen them--they fall asleep over the tables, and hate
the boy who brought them there.

Practically the sole purpose of the place was to fill some one's
pockets, for, as the patrons were playing at being frightful dogs, the
management knew that they could do as they liked with the tariff. The
boys wouldn't go to night-clubs if they were not spendthrifts. Result:
whisky-and-soda, seven-and-sixpence; cup of coffee, half a crown. And
nobody ever had the pluck to ask for change out of a sovereign.

Now, I love my Cockneys, heart and soul. And, just because I love them
so much, I do wish to goodness they wouldn't be Bohemian; I do wish to
goodness they would keep out of Soho cafes. They only come in quest of a
Bohemianism which isn't there. They can get much better food at home, or
they can afford to get a really good meal at an English hotel. I wish
they would leave Soho alone for the people like myself who feed there
because it is cheap, and because the waiters will give us credit.

"Garcong," cried the diner whose food was underdone, "these sausages ne
sont pas fait!"

If the Cockney goes on like this, he will spoil Soho, and he will lose
his own delightful individuality and idiosyncrasy.

But, apart from the invasion of Soho by the girl-clerk and the
book-keeper, one cannot but love it. I love it because, in my early days
of scant feeding, it was the one spot in London where I could gorge to
repletion for a shilling. There was a little place in Wardour Street,
the Franco-Suisse--it is still there--whose shilling table d'hote was a
marvel: And I always had my bob's worth, I can assure you; for those
were the days when one went hungry all day in order to buy concert
tickets. Indeed, there were occasions when the breadbasket was removed
from my table, so savage was the raid I made upon it.

There, one night a week, we feasted gloriously. We revelled. We read the
_Gaulois_ and _Gil Blas_ and papers of a friskier tone. There still
exists