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.
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 legend: “Forthcoming International Wedding. Son of the Earl of Emsworth to marry American heiress.” In one corner of the picture a Cupid, draped in the Stars and Stripes, aimed his bow at the gentleman; in the other another Cupid, clad in a natty Union Jack, was drawing a bead on the lady.
The subeditor had done his work well. He had not been ambiguous. What he intended to convey to the reader was that Miss Aline Peters, of America, was going to marry the Honorable Frederick Threepwood, son of the Earl of Emsworth; and that was exactly the impression the average reader got.
George Emerson, however, was not an average reader. The subeditor’s work did not impress him.
“You mustn’t believe everything you see in the papers,” he said. “What are the stout children in the one-piece bathing suits supposed to be doing?”
“Those are Cupids, George, aiming at us with their little bow– a pretty and original idea.”
“Why Cupids?”
“Cupid is the god of love.”
“What has the god of love got to do with it?”
Aline placidly devoured a fried potato. “You’re simply trying to make me angry,” she said; “and I call it very mean of you. You know perfectly well how fatal it is to get angry at meals. It was eating while he was in a bad temper that ruined father’s digestion. George, that nice, fat carver is wheeling his truck this way. Flag him and make him give me some more of that mutton.”
George looked round him morosely.
“This,” he said, “is England–this restaurant, I mean. You don’t need to go any farther. Just take a good look at this place and you have seen the whole country and can go home again. You may judge a country by its meals. A people with imagination will eat with imagination. Look at the French; look at ourselves, The Englishman loathes imagination. He goes to a place like this and says: ‘Don’t bother me to think. Here’s half a dollar. Give me food–any sort of food–until I tell you to stop.’ And that’s the principle on which he lives his life. ‘Give me anything, and don’t bother me!’ That’s his motto.”
“If that was meant to apply to Freddie and me, I think you’re very rude. Do you mean that any girl would have done for him, so long as it was a girl?”
George Emerson showed a trace of confusion. Being honest with himself, he had to admit that he did not exactly know what he did mean–if he meant anything. That, he felt rather bitterly, was the worst of Aline. She would never let a fellow’s good things go purely as good things; she probed and questioned and spoiled the whole effect. He was quite sure that when he began to speak he had meant something, but what it was escaped him for the moment. He had been urged to the homily by the fact that at a neighboring table he had caught sight of a stout young Briton, with a red face, who reminded him of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. He mentioned this to Aline.