Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously.
Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting discrimination.
“A Dry Martini, Gustave.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the Dry Martini!
Peter raised it to his lips—after all Life wasn’t so very unsatisfactory when there was good food and welcome drink to be had. He sipped his cocktail appraisingly. The place was comparatively empty—it was early. At the next table sat a man and woman. They were talking eagerly and with much animation. The man was doing most of it, with the woman listening attentively and punctuating his remarks at rapid and regular intervals with a curious little vigorous inclination of her head. Peter fell to wondering about them—“a lower middle-class couple on a shopping expedition” was his verdict—arrived at simultaneously with the advent of Gustave and the soup. The fish quickly followed, and he was awaiting the coming of the “appetizing Aylesbury” as he termed it to himself when a familiar voice broke on his ears.
“Hullo, Daventry! What’s brought you up this end so early in the morning?”
Peter looked up. Then he grinned cheerfully.
“Sit down, Marriott! An unexpected pleasure!”
The newcomer sank into the proffered seat, and languidly stretched out a hand for the menu. Peter had met him several times in the Law Courts and had dined with him two or three times recently.