The few who can afford to dine at Goldoni’s seldom care to dine elsewhere, or rather when they are elsewhere they sigh for Goldoni’s. Marian was curious to see for herself what manner of place was this famous restaurant, and was duly grateful to Geraldstein for taking her there; she had feared that he might choose one of the less reputable haunts of merriment by night, which in his company might have proved distasteful. Everything at Goldoni’s is refined except the company, which has but one common virtue, money. Outwardly, however, even the most gross conduct themselves there in seemly fashion. On one occasion only it had not been so, and the peccant guest had been politely but firmly refused a table when next he had desired to dine there. The warning had acted efficaciously and at the same time had vastly enhanced the renown of the place. With the exception that instead of one large there are many small tables in the dining room the effect aimed at and achieved is that of a wealthy private house; in fact, it is a private house in every way; there is no sign above the ordinary hall door, sedate green with ponderous brass knocker. Faultless footmen relieve the men of their coats and hats, and then usher them into the fine reception room where they wait for the ladies who are being attended by equally faultless maidservants. The dining room is a long, finely proportioned room, broken into halves by two graceful pillars; the fireplaces are exquisitely designed—the whole indeed is an admirable example of Adam’s best work. Along the top of the cornice, hidden from sight, runs a row of electric lamps by which, reflected from the ceiling, a cool light is shed on the apartment. The table appointments are perfectly simple, just those of any rich and refined household, and the attendance is—silent. For the cooking and the wines, “they are not perfection,” M. Goldoni frankly admits, adding: “but we strive after it.” Though Geraldstein was not personally acquainted with any of the other diners, he knew many of them by sight and reputation. “There—you see that thin little man over there, with the full-blown wife and half-ripe daughters—that’s Markham, the American millionaire, who has more money and less digestion than any man in the world. He never eats anything but peptonized biscuit and drinks warm water.” “Why does he come here, then?” “To see and be seen. One of the girls—the least unripe—is engaged to Lord Kent. That woman at the next table to us is a mystery; nobody seems to know for certain who she is, whether she’s a Russian spy, or the natural daughter of a Grand Duke—or both, or neither.”