“The best you have will not be too good for my friends,” declared our host in an expansive mood. The cigars came—big things swathed in gold-foil. We took a cigar each, and St. Georgi, who had married the widow Kettner and was now running the show, came in to see how we were getting on. Him also our host asked to have a cigar. St. Georgi complied. That made three cigars in all. At last the time came for paying. The bill was brought in. The founder of the feast ran his eye over it. The document was quite in order—save for one item. “Here, waiter, what the doose is the meaning of this fifteen shillings?” he asked. “Three cigars, sare,” he replied sweetly. “Fifteen shillings!” exclaimed our non-smoking host. “I am sorry, sare,” replied the waiter, looking very sad indeed; “_but we have none better_!” It was a palpable hit. Our friend joined in the laugh—and paid. One of the most characteristic of these foreign eating-houses on English soil was the Café l’Étoile, in one of the streets—Rupert Street, I think it was—which run off Coventry Street, parallel to Wardour Street. This place was one half restaurant, and one half cabaret. A door and a passage led from the one to the other. In the restaurant the usual eighteen-penny dinner of many courses was served, and the usual bottle of vinegary wine was “thrown in.” The company, if not select, was at least sedate. Your Frenchman in London is by no means as gay a creature as on his boulevards at home. And the few English who joined him at his frugal meal in the Café l’Étoile as a rule maintained their insular _mauvais honte_.