We arranged to dine early at the Maison Suisse in Rupert Street—_table d’hôte_ one franc, plus twopence for mad’moiselle—and go on to the gallery of a first night. I was to dress for Covent Garden at Julian’s after the theatre, because white waistcoats and the franc _table d’hôte_ didn’t go well together. When I dined out, I usually went to the Maison Suisse. I shall never have the chance of going again, even if, as a married man, I were allowed to do so, for it has been pulled down to make room for the Hicks Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. When I did not dine there, I attended a quaint survival of last century’s coffee-houses in Glasshouse Street: Tall, pew-like boxes, wooden tables without table-cloths, panelled walls; an excellent menu of chops, steaks, fried eggs, sausages, and other British products. Once the resort of bucks and Macaronis, Ford’s coffee-house I found frequented by a strange assortment of individuals, some of whom resembled bookmakers’ touts, others clerks of an inexplicably rustic type. Who these people really were I never discovered. “I generally have supper at Pepolo’s,” said Julian, as we left the theatre, “before a Covent Garden Ball. Shall we go on there?” There are two entrances to Pepolo’s restaurant, one leading to the ground floor, the other to the brasserie in the basement. I liked to spend an hour or so there occasionally, smoking and watching the crowd. Every sixth visit on an average I would happen upon somebody interesting among the ordinary throng of medical students and third-rate clerks—watery-eyed old fellows who remembered Cremorne, a mahogany derelict who had spent his youth on the sea when liners were sailing-ships, and the apprentices, terrorised by bullying mates and the rollers of the Bay, lay howling in the scuppers and prayed to be thrown overboard. He told me of one voyage on which the Malay cook went mad, and, escaping into the ratlines, shot down a dozen of the crew before he himself was sniped. The supper tables are separated from the brasserie by a line of stucco arches, and as it was now a quarter to twelve the place was full. At a first glance it seemed that there were no empty supper tables. Presently, however, we saw one, laid for four, at which only one man was sitting. “Hullo!” said Julian, “there’s Malim. Let’s go and see if we can push into his table. Well, Malim, how are you? Do you know Cloyster?” Mr. Malim had a lofty expression. I should have put him down as a scholarly recluse. His first words upset this view somewhat. “Coming to Covent Garden?” he said, genially. “I am. So is Kit. She’ll be down soon.” “Good,” said Julian; “may Jimmy and I have supper at your table?” “Do,” said Malim. “Plenty of room. We’d better order our food and not wait for her.” We took our places, and looked round us. The hum of conversation was persistent. It rose above the clatter of the supper tables and the sudden bursts of laughter.