“Then, let me see,” said Mr. Plimmer, returning to the original attitude which had provoked this diversion. “I have it! Kettner’s. You’ve no prejudice against Kettner’s?”
“None whatever. I’ve never been there,” Nancy replied.
“Never been to Kettner’s? Oh, then of course we must go to Kettner’s. No music at Kettner’s. And if there’s one thing I hate it’s chops and sonata sauce.”
Mr. Plimmer blinked his moist eyes as if he were dazzled by the brilliancy of his own wit.
“And now what about a hansom?”
The drive from the corner of Theobalds Road to Kettner’s was a strain on Nancy, because Mr. Plimmer was evidently extremely nervous in hansoms and talked all the time of the close shaves he had had when driving in them. If ever their driver showed the least audacity in passing another vehicle, Mr. Plimmer would draw in his breath with a hiss, or put his hand out over the apron as if he would seize the too urgent horse by the tail and stop his going too fast. However, Kettner’s was reached in safety, and Mr. Plimmer was no sooner on the pavement than he recovered all his suave composure so that he entered the restaurant with the air of knowing exactly where to go and what to order, whenever he should choose to eat in London.
“They know me here,” he whispered to Nancy. “Ah, good morning, Gaston.”
The waiter who had just placed the menu before him looked slightly astonished at being thus addressed; but he was too urbane to put his client out of countenance by pointing out, as Nancy felt sure he could have pointed out, that his name was not Gaston.
“Now, let me see, what is it I always have here?” said Mr. Plimmer.
“Will you take ze table-d’hôte lunch, sare?” the waiter suggested.