At about the hour when the Earl of Emsworth was driving to keep
his appointment with Mr. Peters, a party of two sat at a corner
table at Simpson's Restaurant, in the Strand. One of the two was
a small, pretty, good-natured-looking girl of about twenty; the
other, a thick-set young man, with a wiry crop of red-brown hair
and an expression of mingled devotion and determination. The girl
was Aline Peters; the young man's name was George Emerson. He,
also, was an American, a rising member in a New York law firm. He
had a strong, square face, with a dogged and persevering chin.

There are all sorts of restaurants in London, from the restaurant
which makes you fancy you are in Paris to the restaurant which
makes you wish you were. There are palaces in Piccadilly, quaint
lethal chambers in Soho, and strange food factories in Oxford
Street and Tottenham Court Road. There are restaurants which
specialize in ptomaine and restaurants which specialize in
sinister vegetable messes. But there is only one Simpson's.

Simpson's, in the Strand, is unique. Here, if he wishes, the
Briton may for the small sum of half a dollar stupefy himself
with food. The god of fatted plenty has the place under his
protection. Its keynote is solid comfort.

It is a pleasant, soothing, hearty place--a restful temple of
food. No strident orchestra forces the diner to bolt beef in
ragtime. No long central aisle distracts his attention with its
stream of new arrivals. There he sits, alone with his food, while
white-robed priests, wheeling their smoking trucks, move to and
fro, ever ready with fresh supplies.