It reaches out imperiously and fastens on what it will.

The Brevoort basement--after ten o'clock at night--is the Village.

So is the Lafayette on occasion.

During the day they are delightful French hostelries catering to all the world who like heavenly things to eat and the right atmosphere in which to eat them.

But as the magic hour strikes, presto!--they suffer a sea change and become the quintessence of the Spirit of the Village! It is 10.20 P.M.at the Brevoort in the restaurant upstairs.
All the world and his wife--or his sweetheart--are fully represented.
Most of the uptowners--the regulation clientele--are going away, having finished gorging themselves on delectable things; some few of them are lingering, lazily curious; a certain small number are still coming in, moved by that restless Manhattanic spirit that hates to go home in the dark.
Among these is a discontented, well-dressed couple, seen half an hour before completing their dinner a block away at the Lafayette.