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. If you hurry you will be
just in time to see the Village come in. For this is their really
favourite haunt--their Mecca when their pockets will stand it--the
Village Restaurant de Luxe!
Upstairs are exquisite frocks and impeccable evening clothes; good
jewels and, incidentally, a good many tired faces--from uptown. Down
here it is different. The crowd is younger, poorer, more strikingly
bizarre--immeasurably more interesting. Everyone here does something,
or thinks he does--which is just as good;--or pretends to--which is
next best.
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