He moved to the tables where the reviews and magazines were, and spent a pleasant hour or two amongst them.  He planned out a new story, saw his way to a satirical article upon a popular novel, thought of an epigram, and walked out into the street a few minutes before one with something of the old exhilaration of spirits dancing through his veins.  His condition of absolute poverty had not yet lost the flavour of novelty.  He even laughed as he realised that again he was hungry and must rely upon chance for a meal.  This time there was no fat confectioner to play the good Samaritan.  But by chance he passed a pawnbroker’s shop, and with a little cry of triumph he dragged a fat, yellow-faced silver watch from his pocket and stepped blithely inside.  He found it valued at much less than he had expected, but he attempted no bargaining.  He walked out again into the street, a man of means.  There were silver coins in his pocket—­enough to last him for a couple of days at least.  It was unexpected fortune.

He bought some tobacco and cigarette papers and rolled himself a cigarette.  Then he stepped out in the direction of the Strand, where he imagined the restaurants mostly lay.  He passed St. James’s Palace, up St. James’s Street and into Piccadilly.  For a while he forgot his hunger.  There was so much that was marvellous, so much to admire.  Burlington House was pointed out by a friendly policeman; he passed into the courtyard where the pigeons were feeding, and looked around him with admiration which was tempered almost with awe.  On his way out he again addressed the policeman.

“I want to have some lunch somewhere,” he said.  “I can only spend about two shillings, and I want the best I can get for the money.  I wonder whether you could direct me.”

The policeman smiled.

“There’s only one place for you, sir,” he said, “and it’s lucky as I can direct you there.  You go to Spargetti’s in Old Compton Street, off Soho Square.  I’ve heard that there’s no West-End place to touch it—­and they do you the whole lot for two bob, including a quarter flask of wine.  I’ve a brother-in-law as keeps the books there, and I have it from him, sir, that there ain’t such value for money in the whole country.  And there’s this about it, sir,” he added confidentially, “you can eat what’s set before you.  It ain’t like some of these nasty, low, foreign eating-’ouses where you daren’t touch rabbit, and the soup don’t seem canny.  There’s plenty like that, but not Spargetti’s.  You’re all right there, sir.”

Douglas went off, fortified with many directions, and laughing heartily.  He found Spargetti’s, and seated himself at a tiny table in a long low room, blue already with cigarette smoke.  They brought him such a luncheon as he had never eaten before.  Grated macaroni in his soup, watercress and oil with his chicken, a curious salad and a wonderful cheese.  Around him was the constant hum of gay conversation.