As I seated myself, the entire staff, headed by a brass band, brought me my _sardines à l'huile_. These are a _specialité_ of the house, and are never--should never be, at least--eaten with the tin. The _potage à la potasse_ was quite excellent. I congratulated the courteous _chef_, pointing out to him the desirability of mixing, sometimes, a little anti-pyrine into the potassium--both drugs far too rarely used in modern cookery. Then came the question of wine. This I solved for the moment by ordering two Jeroboams of Stereoscopic Company et Fils; a _cuvée_ of '80, absolutely _reservée_ for my own use. As I had engaged the entire staff of waiters, a crown prince, who was entertaining one of our leading bicyclists, rose to leave, with his guest. I smiled and nodded to them as they passed, which appeared to hasten their departure. The _moulin à vent_ was delicious, but the _dindon décousu_ I could not pass. No self-respecting _gourmet_ will pass everything at a dinner. Gontran, the kindly _maître d'hôtel_, was almost in tears, but I consoled him by observing that the ostriches were cooked to a turn, and the _bombe glacée à l'anarchiste_ faultless. But my hostess? Where was she? Where was Mademoiselle Faustine? I had quite forgotten her! I beckoned to Hagenbock, the press representative of the restaurant, who informed me she had been dead eight months! I, who read nothing but menus, had omitted to notice this in the papers. I was greatly pained. The shock unnerved me--I could eat no more. Besides, who was now to pay the bill? I reproduce the bill. Couverts, £5. Diners, £36 8_s._ Pain, 2_s._ Champagne, £47. Liqueurs, 15_s._ Addition, 3_s._ In all, £89 8_s._--(This is one of the few restaurants where a charge is made for the addition.) "Make out the bill," said I, "in francs, and send it to the executors of Mademoiselle Faustine." II. Monsieur Victor de Train-de-Luxe is in many respects a delightful person. In other ways he is not. For instance, because he was, accidentally, the cause of my backing a winner at Ascot (simply by means of ordinary stable information), he had the bad taste to suggest that I should stand him a dinner. I said, "Certainly, my dear Comte" (Comte being the courtesy title I invariably give to foreigners from whom I have the hope of borrowing money). "Where shall it be?" "There is only one place where one _can_ dine," I said. "Of course--the Bon Marché," he replied. "No," I answered. "No, _mon ami_. If you wish to eat a really characteristic English dinner, come to the Vegetarian Restaurant in Edgware Road. Come along. Come, _now_!" "But it's only six o'clock. I am not hungry." "All the better," I replied. And I also pointed out to him that the best way to see London is outside an omnibus. So we started. * * * * *