The better burst aspiringly from the tops of columns on the first page and outsoared the very title of the paper.

He saw there, for instance, to the left of the title, a new, refined tea-house in Piccadilly Circus, owned and managed by gentlewomen, where you had real tea and real bread-and butter and real cakes in a real drawing-room.

It was astounding.
The cab stopped.
"Is this it ?" he asked the driver.
"This is 250, sir." And it was.

But it did not resemble even a private hotel.

It exactly resembled a private house, narrow and tall and squeezed in between its sister and its brother.