spread
such a stillness over the place that you could almost hear a goods train
shunt; and we stood there watching the berthing of a big P. & O. for
many pensive minutes.

By the way, you ought to know Georgie; he is a London character. Perhaps
you do, for he has thousands of acquaintances. He knows all that there
is to know about London--or, at least, the real London, by which phrase
I exclude the foreign quarters and the Isle of Dogs. These he does not
regard as part of London. His acquaintance among waiters alone is a
matter for wonder. At odd times you may meet him in a bar with a
stranger, an impressive-looking personage who, you conjecture, is an
attache of a foreign Embassy. But no; you do him an injustice; he is
greater than that. Georgie introduces you with a histrionic flourish--

"This is Mr. Burke--young Tommy Burke. This is Carlo, of Romano's." Or,
"This is young Tommy. This is Frank from the Cornhill Chop House," or
Henry from Simpson's, or Enrico from Frascati's, or Jules from Maxim's.

I believe that Georgie knows more about food and feeding than any man in
London. I don't mean that he could seriously compete with
Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham Davis. He couldn't draw up a little dinner
for you at the Ritz or Claridge's or Dieudonne's. But, then, here again
he shows his prejudices; for he doesn't regard a dinner at the Ritz or
Claridge's as anything to do with eating. His is the quieter sphere; but
he has made it his own. There is something uncanny about his knowledge
in this direction. He knows where you can get a meal at two o'clock in
the morning, and he can tell you exactly what you will get. He can tell
you in an instant what is the prime dish at any obscure little
eating-house and the precise moment at which it is on the table. He
knows the best house for cabbage, and the house to be avoided if you are
thinking of potatoes. He knows where to go for sausage and mashed, and
he can reel off a number of places which must be avoided when their
haricot mutton is on. He knows when the boiled beef is most _a la mode_
at Wilkinson's, when the pudding at the "Cheshire Cheese" is just so,
and when the undercut at Simpson's is most to be desired. You meet him,
say, on Tuesday, and, in course of conversation, you wonder where to
lunch. "Tuesday," he will murmur, "Tuesday. What d'you fancy? It's
fowl-and-bacon day at 'The Mitre.' That's always good. Or it's
stewed-steak day at 'The Old Bull,' near the Bank; beaut