worry again.

For years the thought of London haunted Anton; and then one day, in a
superb moment of decision, he announced his intention of journeying
thither. A large entourage followed him to the Gare du Nord, and, with
much the same feelings as those of an explorer leaving for the North
Pole, he bade a dramatic farewell, and almost missed his train by
running back to give a final embrace to Madame Beauchamp.

With no undue mishap he reached London the same night, and next day he
lunched at a famous London restaurant. At night he dined at a
fashionable establishment in Shaftesbury Avenue. In both places he
received ordinary food served without distinction, reckoned up the
bill, and found that in each case _l'addition_ was correct--and rushed
madly back to Paris, where he sold the Café Bleu, packed up his
belongings, and explained matters to his wife, doing all three things
simultaneously.

'The dinner,' he exclaimed in a fever of excitement, 'is served--so!
As a funeral. I order what I like, and the waiter he stands there
_comme un gendarme_, as if it is my name I give. "Any vegetables?"
demands he. _Mon Dieu_! As if vegetables they are no more to him than
so much--so much umbrellas. I say, "_Garçon, la carte des vins_!" and,
quite correct, he hands it me with so many wines he has not got, just
as in Paris, but--_que penses tu_?--he permits me to order what wine I
choose, so--by myself. _C'est terrible_! I give him three pennies and
say, "_Garçon_, for such stupidity you should pay the whole bill."'

Monsieur Beauchamp was a man of shrewdness. He knew he could not
compete with the established solidity of the Trocadero, the Ritz, the