about her. She seemed to be unnecessarily conscious of being alone.
Suddenly she spoke.

"Nice little restaurant, this," she said. "One of the few places where
you can depend upon not being annoyed."

Joan did not understand. "In what way?" she asked.

"Oh, you know, men," answered the girl. "They come and sit down opposite
to you, and won't leave you alone. At most of the places, you've got to
put up with it or go outside. Here, old Gustav never permits it."

Joan was troubled. She was rather looking forward to occasional
restaurant dinners, where she would be able to study London's Bohemia.

"You mean," she asked, "that they force themselves upon you, even if you
make it plain--"

"Oh, the plainer you make it that you don't want them, the more sport
they think it," interrupted the girl with a laugh.

Joan hoped she was exaggerating. "I must try and select a table where
there is some good-natured girl to keep me in countenance," she said with
a smile.

"Yes, I was glad to see you," answered the girl. "It's hateful, dining
by oneself. Are you living alone?"

"Yes," answered Joan. "I'm a journalist."