a Servian cafe where all manner of inflammatory organs of
Nihilism may be read, and where heavy-bearded men--Anarchists, you hope,
but piano-builders, you fear--would sit for three hours over their
dinner Talking, _Talking_, TALKING. Then for another hour they would
play backgammon, and at last roll out, blasphemously, to the darkened
street, and so Home to those mysterious lodgings about Broad Street and
Pulteney Street.

How the kitchens manage to do those shilling table d'hotes is a mystery
which I have never solved, though I have visited "below" on one or two
occasions and talked with the chefs. There are about a dozen cafes now
which, for the Homeric shilling, give you four courses, bread _ad lib_,
and coffee to follow. And it is good; it is a refection for the
gods--certain selected gods.

You stroll into the little gaslit room (enamelled in white and
decorated with tables set in the simplest fashion, yet clean and
sufficient) as though you are dropping in at the Savoy or Dieudonne's.
It is rhomboidal in shape, with many angles, as though perspective had
suddenly gone mad. Each table is set with a spoon, a knife, a fork, a
serviette, a basket of French bread, and a jar of French mustard. If you
are in spendthrift mood, you may send the boy for a bottle of _vin
ordinaire_, which costs tenpence; on more sober occasions you send him
for beer.

There is no menu on the table; the waiter or, more usually, in these
smaller places, the waitress explains things to you as you go along.
Each course carries two dishes, _au choix_. There are no _hors
d'oeuvres_; you dash gaily into the soup. The tureen is brought to the
table, and you have as many goes as you please. Hot water, flavoured
with potato and garnished with a yard of bread, makes an excellent
lining for a hollow stomach. This is followed by omelette or fish. Of
the two evils you choose the less, and cry "Omelette!" When the omelette
is thrown in front of you it at once makes its presence felt. It recalls
Bill Nye's beautiful story about an introspective egg laid by a morbid
hen. However, if you smother the omelette in salt, red pepper, and
mustard, you will be able to deal with it. I fear I cannot say as much
for the fish. Then follows the inevitable chicken and salad, or perhaps
Vienna steak, or _vol-au-vent_. The next item is Camembert or fruit, and
coffee concludes the display.

Dining in these places is not a matter of subdued murmurs, of
conversation in d