famous restaurant, whose wide windows were flung open to the illuminated
majesty of the Thames Embankment. The pale cream room was nearly full of
expensive women, and expending men, and silver-chained waiters whose
skilled, noiseless, inhuman attentions were remunerated at the rate of
about four-pence a minute. Music, the midnight food of love, floated
scarce heard through the tinted atmosphere. It was the best imitation of
Roman luxury that London could offer, and after Selwood Terrace and the
rackety palace of no gratuities, Priam Farll enjoyed it as one enjoys
home after strange climes.

Next to his table was an empty table, set for two, to which were
presently conducted, with due state, a young man, and a magnificent
woman whose youth was slipping off her polished shoulders like a cloak.
Priam Farll then overheard the following conversation:--

_Man_: Well, what are you going to have?

_Woman_: But look here, little Charlie, you can't possibly afford to pay
for this!

_Man_: Never said I could. It's the paper that pays. So go ahead.

_Woman_: Is Lord Nasing so keen as all that?

_Man_: It isn't Lord Nasing. It's our brand new editor specially
imported from Chicago.

_Woman_: Will he last?

_Man_: He'll last a hundred nights, say as long as the run of your