As for the crowd, well, Barfleur stated that it might be smart and it might not. Certain publishers, rich Jewish merchants, a few actors and some Americans would probably be here. This grill was affected by the foreign element. The maître d’hôtel was French, of course—a short, fat, black-whiskered man who amused me by his urbanity. The waiters were, I believe, German, as they are largely in London and elsewhere in England. One might almost imagine Germany intended invading England via its waiters. The china and plate were simple and inexpensive, almost poor. A great hotel can afford to be simple. We had what we would have had at any good French restaurant, and the crowd was rather commonplace-looking to me. Several American girls came in and they were good-looking, smart but silly. I cannot say that I was impressed at all, and my subsequent experiences confirm that feeling. I am inclined to think that London hasn’t one hotel of the material splendor of the great new hotels in New York. But let that go for the present.
While we were sipping coffee Barfleur told me of a Mrs. W., a friend of his whom I was to meet. She was, he said, a lion-hunter. She tried to make her somewhat interesting personality felt in so large a sea as London by taking up with promising talent before it was already a commonplace. I believe it was arranged over the ’phone then that I should lunch there—at Mrs. W.’s—the following day at one and be introduced to a certain Lady R., who was known as a patron of the arts, and a certain Miss H., an interesting English type. I was pleased with the idea of going. I had never seen an English lady lion-hunter. I had never met English ladies of the types of Lady R. and Miss H. There might be others present. I was also informed that Mrs. W. was really not English but Danish; but she and her husband, who was also Danish and a wealthy broker, had resided in London so long that they were to all intents and purposes English, and in addition to being rich they were in rather interesting standing socially.
After luncheon we went to hear a certain Miss T., an Austrian of about thirty years of age, sing at some important hall in London—Bechstein Hall, I believe it was,—and on the way I was told something of her. It seemed that she was very promising—a great success in Germany and elsewhere as a concert-singer—and that she might be coming to America at some time or other. Barfleur had known her in Paris. He seemed to think I would like her. We went and I heard a very lovely set of songs—oh, quite delightful, rendered in a warm, sympathetic, enthusiastic manner, and representing the most characteristic type of German love sentiment. It is a peculiar sentiment—tender, wistful, smacking of the sun at evening and lovely water on which the moon is shining. German sentiment verges on the mushy—is always close to tears—but anything more expressive of a certain phase of life I do not know.
Miss T. sang forcefully, joyously, vigorously, and I wished sincerely to meet her and tell her so; but that was not to be, then.
As we made our way to Paddington Barfleur, brisk and smiling, asked:
“Were you amused?”
“Quite.”
“Well, then this afternoon was not wasted. I shall always be satisfied if you are amused.”
I smiled, and we rode sleepily back to Bridgely Level to dine and thence to bed.