On the wall is scribbled, "'There's plenty of room,' said Alice."
The people around you seem only pleasantly mad, not dangerously so.
There is a girl with an enchanting scrap of a monkey; there is a youth
with a manuscript and a pile of cigarette butts. The great thing here
once more is that they are taking their little play and their little
stage with a heavenly seriousness, all of them. You expect somebody to
produce a set of flamingos at any moment and start a game of croquet
among the tiny tables.
Not all of the Greenwich restaurants have definite individual
characters to maintain consistently. Sometimes it is just a general
spirit of picturesqueness, of adventure, that they are trying to keep
up. The "Mouse Trap," except for the trap hanging outside and a mouse
scrawled in chalk on the wall of the entry, carries out no particular
suggestion either of traps or mice. But take a look at the
proprietress (Rita they call her), with her gorgeous Titian hair and
delft-blue apron; at her son Sidney, fair, limp, slim, English-voiced,
with a deft way of pouring after-dinner coffee, and hair the colour of
corn.
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