Both were punctual, and Mortimer guided his friend through several small and unsavory streets to a narrow court at the far end of which was situated the humble restaurant bearing the high-sounding name La Palais.
“It’s not much to look at,” he said, as they went in through the swing door, “like an ugly woman with a pretty wit. Bon jour, Madame.”
Madame, a stout, jolly-looking woman, greeted Mortimer cordially, and nodded genially to his companion.
“Now, Madame, I’ve brought a friend with me and I’ve told him—well, I’ve told him the truth about you. So don’t shatter my entirely undeserved reputation for veracity. We’ll have this snug corner and leave the menu to you. You know the kind of thing I like.”
The room was long and low; clean, neat, with little attempt at decoration; the walls covered with plain, dark gray paper, the electric light pendants severely simple; flowering shrubs stood upon the pay desk near the entrance, and similar plants or cut flowers upon the tables.
“I can’t make out how this place pays,” said Mortimer, “there are never more than a handful of people here. I suppose it will suddenly become popular and then rapidly deteriorate. That’s the history of all these places. Meanwhile let us rejoice. We’ll have some Chianti, but will not drink it neat as do the barbarians, but judiciously tempered with Polly.”
Lunch finished, coffee and cigars produced, Mortimer announced that he was ready to talk seriously.
“What’s up?” he asked. “You shall have all the advice I can give and I shan’t be in the least hurt if you don’t follow any of it. Your mind’s sure to be made up already and you simply ask for advice in the hope that my view will be your view.”
“No, I don’t, Fred. Not such an ass. I’m in a bad corner and I’m damned if I know how to get out of it. I don’t know whether you know that Mrs. Squire has a husband?”
“I didn’t. I imagined the prefix to be entirely ceremonial.”