THE AUTHOR OF "NO MAN'S LAND"
Douglas returned his greeting cordially. His vis-a-vis drew the menu towards him and studied it with interest. Setting it down he screwed a single eyeglass into his eye and beamed over at Douglas.
"Is the daily grind O. K.?" he inquired suavely.
Douglas was disconcerted at being unable to answer a question so pleasantly asked.
"I—beg your pardon," he said, doubtfully. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
The newcomer waved his hand to some acquaintances and smiled cheerfully.
"I see you're a stranger here," he remarked. "There's a table-d'hote luncheon for the modest sum of eighteenpence, which is the cheapest way to feed, if it's decent. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I thought perhaps you might have sampled it."
"I believe I have," Douglas answered. "I told the waiter to bring me the ordinary lunch, and I thought it was very good indeed."
"Then I will risk it. Henri. Come here, you scamp."
He gave a few orders to the waiter, who treated him with much respect.
Then he turned again to Douglas.