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hey dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It
Twas not one of the more crowded of those cheap res-
taurants where the respectable and needy dine in the belief
that it is bohemian and the assurance that it is economical.
It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from
Rouen and his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident.
He had been attracted by the Gallic look of the window, in
which was generally an uncooked steak on one plate and
on each side two dishes of raw vegetables. There was one
seedy French waiter, who was attempting to learn English
in a house where he never heard anything but French; and
the customers were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or
two, who had their own napkins reserved for them, and a
few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty meals.
Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to them-
selves. Philip sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from
the neighbouring tavern, and they had a potage aux herbes,
a steak from the window aux pommes, and an omelette au
kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the meal and
in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her appre-
ciation—‘I never quite trust these foreign places, you never
know what there is in these messed up dishes’—was insen-
sibly moved by it.
‘I like this place, Philip,’ she said. ‘You feel you can put