And as each diner at some time cut his monogram into the table, the semi-polished surface shows priceless memorials of the great British authors, artists, and illustrators.
I was informed by my kind host that I might sit at any place I chose. I hesitated between Thackeray’s and Mark Lemon’s, but finally by a sudden impulse I dropped into a chair in front of the monogram of George du Maurier.
The Editor of Punch smiled a little, but he only said, “You Americans are a humorous people.”
My own subjective London was achieving itself. I have always remembered pleasantly, how,
Without a bit of trouble,
Arabella blew a bubble,
and, with emulative ease, I blew a beautiful, impalpable, iridescent sphere and called it London.
To be sure, a single interrogation point from an earnest Tourist would have burst my bubble, for my whole London hadn’t a Tower or a British Museum in it.