Moreover, he felt hungry.

Hence he had descended to the famous restaurant, whose wide windows were flung open to the illuminated majesty of the Thames Embankment.

The pale cream room was nearly full of expensive women, and expending men, and silver-chained waiters whose skilled, noiseless, inhuman attentions were remunerated at the rate of about four-pence a minute.

Music, the midnight food of love, floated scarce heard through the tinted atmosphere.

It was the best imitation of Roman luxury that London could offer, and after Selwood Terrace and the rackety palace of no gratuities, Priam Farll enjoyed it as one enjoys home after strange climes.
Next to his table was an empty table, set for two, to which were presently conducted, with due state, a young man, and a magnificent woman whose youth was slipping off her polished shoulders like a cloak.
Priam Farll then overheard the following conversation:-- _Man_: Well, what are you going to have?
_Woman_: But look here, little Charlie, you can't possibly afford to pay for this! _Man_: Never said I could.