The head waiter at that restaurant explained them nonchalantly, not to say casually: "It is the gentleman who married his manicurist.

Regard, then--one perceives they are not happy--eh?
It is understood that she beats him." Yonder is a moving-picture star, quite alone, eating a great deal, and looking blissfully content.

There is a man who has won a fortune in war-brides--the one at the next table did it with carpets.

There is a great lady--a very great lady indeed--who, at this season, _should_ be out of town.
Swiftly moving, deft-handed waiters, the faint perfume of delicate food, the sparkle of light upon rare wine, the complex murmur of a well-filled dining-room.

It is so far not strikingly different, in the impression it gives, from uptown restaurants.
But the hands of the clock are pointing to the half-hour after ten.
Hasten, then, to the downstairs cafe,--the two rooms, sunk below the level of Fifth Avenue, yet cool and airy.