All round the room--some at small tables, some at large tables
--the worshipers sit, in their eyes that resolute, concentrated
look which is the peculiar property of the British luncher,
ex-President Roosevelt's man-eating fish, and the American army
worm.

Conversation does not flourish at Simpson's. Only two of all
those present on this occasion showed any disposition toward
chattiness. They were Aline Peters and her escort.

"The girl you ought to marry," Aline was saying, "is Joan
Valentine."

"The girl I am going to marry," said George Emerson, "is Aline
Peters."

For answer, Aline picked up from the floor beside her an
illustrated paper and, having opened it at a page toward the end,
handed it across the table.

George Emerson glanced at it disdainfully. There were two
photographs on the page. One was of Aline; the other of a heavy,
loutish-looking youth, who wore that expression of pained
glassiness which Young England always adopts in the face of a
camera.

Under one photograph were printed the words: "Miss Aline Peters,
who is to marry the Honorable Frederick Threepwood in June";
under the other: "The Honorable Frederick Threepwood, who is to
marry Miss Aline Peters in June." Above the photographs was the