dine."

"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any
particular one."

"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well
cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hote_ menu is
really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness."

"Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As
a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an
unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of
delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says
that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and
better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents."

"I know the place, and your friend is quite right."

Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle.
When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which
in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already
heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating
respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway
and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner.

"What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!" remarked
Larcher.

Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: