The hotel keepers must have heaped up untold wealth that
winter, and the abundance of custom had ruined their sense of
hospitality.
So we discarded the idea of a hotel dinner. We referred to our
chauffeur, who was "some chauffeur, believe me." "What about that
little chop house ('The Silver Grill') which he had frequently lauded
with fulsome praise?" He did not now wax enthusiastic--a point we
noted, and of which we found the explanation--but he drove us there.
The Silver Grill was a curious old place, with winding stair-case,
ancient beamed ceilings in the smoking-room, and a general appearance
indicating that it had seen service at least two hundred years.
Climbing to the attic, we entered a little dining room, perhaps twenty
feet long, with room for about sixteen diners. The tables were
occupied chiefly by officers, and we took the settee next the wall and
ordered the chef d'oeuvre--a steak smothered in onions, and French
fried potatoes.
Norah, the one serving maid, a pretty little thing, was evidently a
great favorite with the habituees of the place. The wife of the
proprietor was a handsome big woman dressed in a close fitting black
frock, with the figure of a Venus de Milo. She hovered about talking
to the men and acting "mother" to them all. One officer was plainly
"overseas". The landlady watched him like a sister, got him to put his
hat and coat on properly and steered him past the smoking-room and bar
to the front door, and she was careful to explain to us two, knowing
we were Canadians, "I have never seen Captain X like that before.
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