oured picture of her in the window
had led them to imagine, they invaded the love of an eating-house.
They stepped within the threshold firmly enough, but then stood
hesitant. The place gave them a general sense of brownness. It was the
old-fashioned style of coffee-house, with a sanded pathway down the
middle and a row of stalls on either side, each separated from its
neighbours by tall partitions. Everything was of a dirty brown,
panelling, partitions, benches and the bare tables. A brown light came
through the dingy windows, and the very odours that hung in the dingy
atmosphere suggested the same tint.

A coatless, aproned waiter emerged from the back to greet the first
mid-day customers, and, in reply to their enquiry for lunch, invited
them to be seated within one of the stalls. After he had wiped their
table he disappeared, and he returned in a moment with a table cloth,
followed by a shorter and stouter man, also in shirt sleeves. They
began to see they had made an impression, and were to be served in
accordance with the host's sense of the fitness of things.

The proprietor--for such the stout man was--by way of special
civility, remarked that it was fine weather, and asked what he might
get them.

"The correct thing," said Lady Thiselton; and, on the man staring,
"what everybody usually has here," she added, in explanation.

"Boiled beef and suet to-day, or roast beef and Yorkshire, or chops
and steaks," enumerated the man.

So "boiled beef and suet" was ordered on the assumption it was the
correct thing, and, while the waiter was busy getting it, the
proprietor felt it his duty to entertain them till it came.

"His intentions were no doubt strictly honourable, but, Morgan, do you
think we shall have to talk to people like that when socialism is
established? My goodness!" she exclaimed, examining the slices of meat
closely. "What are those green streaks?"

"Perhaps that's perfectly right. The green streaks--like the boiled
carrot--may be just a little surprise by way of extra. Neither is
included in the description of the dish."

"Morgan, I really don't think I can eat this," she said faintly.

"Backsliding already?"

"Not at all. You forget I'm a bundle of 'isms,' and in practice one
can only be true to one at a time. When that one begins to make me
feel uncomfortable, I become true to another. Thus I am always true to
myself. All the mutually contradictory 'isms' unite in a higher
synthesis. Am I