"By the way," the man's face crinkled into a smile as he spoke, "are you doing anything to-night?"
"Let's go and have dinner together--I know a good French place in Soho."
"Oh, thanks. I shall be awfully pleased."
"Half a crown, _table d'hôte_. Can you afford?"
"Certainly I can," said Richard, perhaps a little annoyed, until he recollected that Mr. Aked had used exactly the same phrase on a previous occasion.
"I'll pay for the wine," Mr. Aked repeated decisively.
"All right. You told me about this Soho place before, if you remember."
"A whim, young friend, nothing else. Take my arm."
Richard laughed aloud, for no reason in particular, except that he felt happy. They settled to a brisk walk.
The restaurant was a square apartment with a low and smoky beamed ceiling, and shining brass hat-pegs all round the walls; above the hat-pegs were framed advertisements of liqueurs and French, Italian, and Spanish wines. The little tables, whose stiff snowy cloths came near to touching the floor at every side, gleamed and glittered in the light of a fire. The place was empty save for an old waiter who was lighting the gas. The waiter turned a large, mild countenance to Mr. Aked as the two entered, and smiling benignly greeted him with a flow of French, and received a brief reply in the same language. Richard failed to comprehend what was said.
They chose a table near the fire. Mr. Aked at once pulled a book from his pocket and began to read; and Richard, somewhat accustomed by this time to his peculiarities, found nothing extraordinary in such conduct. This plain little restaurant seemed full of enchantment. He was in Paris,--not the great Paris which is reached _via_ Charing Cross, but that little Paris which hides itself in the immensity of London. French newspapers were scattered about the room; the sound of French voices came musically through an open door; the bread which was presently brought in with the _hors d'oeuvre_ was French, and the setting of the table itself showed an exotic daintiness which he had never seen before.
Outside a barrel organ was piercingly strident in the misty dusk. Above the ground-glass panes of the window, Richard could faintly descry the upper storeys of houses on the opposite side of the road. There was a black and yellow sign, "Umberto Club," and above that a blue and red sign, "Blanchisserie française." Still higher was an open window from which leaned a young, negligently dressed woman with a coarse Southern face; she swung a bird-cage idly in her hand; the bird-cage fell and was swallowed by the ground glass, and the woman with a gesture of despair disappeared from the window; the barrel organ momentarily ceased its melody and then struck up anew.