for seventy years. Either it has not paid Bolter's, or Bolter's has been too proud, but anyhow the Whelps of the Lion are quite ignorant of Bolter's, so are the cousins of the noble beast, so certainly are the greater part of such degraded natives of the European Continent as we permit to visit our Metropolis and to stare at our Imperial Populace.
Even the young bloods for the most part have not heard of Bolter's, and as it never spends a penny on advertisements, its name, on the rare occasions when it appears in an article or a letter, is ruthlessly struck out in proof by the blue pencil of the editor.
Bolter's is known and loved by perhaps two hundred families. It is a tradition, and as you may well imagine, enormously expensive. If you are two dining at Bolter's, you may expect to spend £7, and if you are three, £10. If you are very rich, it is worth your while to dine at Bolter's. If you are only moderately rich, it is worth your while. If you are poor, it is also worth your while to go to prison for not paying—so excellent is the food.
All this I tell the reader in order that he may know how and why Jimmy and Melba were entertaining their friend. That friend,
