strong enough for identification; then again it would become faint
and hardly discernible. It had a rich, sweet oily tang, but we were
at a loss to name it. We finally concluded that it was the bouquet
of an "odourless disinfectant" that seemed to have its headquarters
near by. In one place some bales of dried and withered roots were
being loaded on a truck: they gave off a faint savour, which was
familiar but baffling. On inquiry, these were sarsaparilla. Endymion
was pleased with a sign on a doorway: "_Crude drugs and spices and
essential oils._" This, he said, was a perfect Miltonic line.

Hanover Square, however, was the apex of our pilgrimage. To come
upon India House is like stepping back into the world of Charles
Lamb. We had once lunched in the clubrooms upstairs with a charming
member and we had never forgotten the old seafaring prints, the
mustard pots of dark blue glass, the five-inch mutton chops, the
Victorian contour of the waiter's waistcoat of green and yellow
stripe. This time we fared toward the tavern in the basement, where
even the outsider may penetrate, and were rejoiced by a snug table
in the corner. Here we felt at once the true atmosphere of lunching,
which is at its best when one can get in a corner, next to some old
woodwork rubbed and shiny with age. Shandygaff, we found, was not
unknown to the servitor; and the cider that we saw Endymion beaming
upon was a blithe, clear yellow, as merry to look at as a fine white
wine. Very well, very well indeed, we said to ourselves; let the
world revolve; in the meantime, what is that printed in blackface
type upon the menu? We have looked upon the faces of many men, we
have endured travail and toil and perplexity, we have written much
rot and suffered much inward shame to contemplate it; but in the
meantime (we said, gazing earnestly upon the face of Endymion), in
the meantime, we repeated, and before destiny administers that final