He beat a hasty retreat from the first he entered, when
the officious proprietor assured him that he would serve up a
dejeuner in the best French style. At the second he chose a dish
with an Italian name, but the name was the only Italian thing about
it. The experiment had failed. It seemed as if Italian
restaurateurs were sworn not to cook Italian dishes, and the next
day he went to do as best he could at the club.
But before he reached the club door he recalled how, many years
ago, he and other young bloods used to go for chops to Morton's, a
queer little house at the back of St. James' Street, and towards
Morton's he now turned his steps. As he entered it, it seemed as
if it was only yesterday that he was there. He beheld the waiter,
with mouth all awry, through calling down the tube. The same old
mahogany partitions to the boxes, and the same horse-hair benches.
Sir John seated himself in a box, where there was one other luncher
in the corner, deeply absorbed over a paper.
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