Along toward twelve-thirty o'clock
the waiters begin going about, turning out the lights. The average
London restaurant is none too brightly illuminated to start with,
being a dim and dingy ill-kept place compared with the glary, shiny
lobster palace that we know; so instantly you are made aware of a
thickening of the prevalent gloom. The waiters start in at the
far end of the room and turn out a few lights. Drawing nearer and
nearer to you they turn out more lights; and finally, by way of
strengthening the hint, they turn out the lights immediately above
your head, which leaves you in the stilly dark with no means of
seeing your food even; unless you have taken the precaution to
spread phosphorus on your sandwich instead of mustard--which,
however, is seldom done. A better method is to order a portion
of one of the more luminous varieties of imported cheese.
The best thing of all, however, is to take your hat and stick and
go away from there. And then, unless you belong to a regular club
or carry a card of admission to one of the chartered all-night
clubs that have sprung up so abundantly in London, and which are
uniformly stuffy, stupid places where the members take their
roistering seriously--or as a last resort, unless you care to sit
for a tiresome hour or two in the grill of your hotel--you might
as well be toddling away to bed; that is to say, you might as well
go to bed unless you find the scenes in the street as worth while
as I found them.
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