KIPPS
drifted on to a neat window with champagne bottles, a dish of asparagus and a framed menu of a two-shilling lunch. He was about to enter, when fortunately he perceived two waiters looking at him over the back screen of the window with a most ironical expression, and he sheered off at once. There was a wonderful smell of hot food half-way down Fleet Street and a nice-looking tavern with several doors, but he could not decide which door. His nerve was going under the strain.
He hesitated at Farringdon Street and drifted up to St. Paul's and round the churchyard, full chiefly of dead bargains in the shop windows, to Cheapside. But now Kipps was getting demoralised, and each house of refreshment seemed to promise still more complicated obstacles to food. He didn't know how you went in and what was the correct thing to do with your hat; he didn't know what you said to the waiter or what you called the different things; he was convinced absolutely he would "fumble," as Shalford would have said, and look like a fool. Somebody might laugh at him! The hungrier he got the more unendurable was the thought that anyone should laugh at him. For a time he considered an extraordinary expedient to account for his ignorance. He would go in and pretend to be a foreigner and not know English. Then they might understand. . . . Presently he had drifted into a part of London where there did not seem to be any refreshment places at all.
"Oh, desh!" said Kipps, in a sort of agony of indecisiveness. "The very nex' place I see, in I go."
The next place was a fried-fish shop in a little side
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