The next thing would be a feed.  He reminded himself of his hunger, and argued that he did not want anything “fancy.”  He would go to a grill and order just what he liked, and a lot of it.  The “Trocerdilli” was just the place.  First of all would come a “short one”—­not that he needed an appetiser!  He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light.  He could hear the band, above the whirr of conversation, playing something he knew.  He was glancing down the menu card, and the waiter was at his side.  A soup that was succulent, thick and hot—­his mouth watered!  Whitebait, perhaps.  He saw their round little eyes and stiff tails as he squeezed his slice of lemon over them.  He felt the wafer-slice of brown bread and butter in his fingers.  A whisky-and-soda, and a double one at that, to drink—­he was tired of these French wines. A steak “from the grill”—­undoubtedly a steak—­tender, juicy, red, with “chipped” potatoes, lying in long gold-and-brown fingers around it.  His teeth clashed at the thought of it!  What would he have “to follow”?  Something rich and cold!  A meringue glacee was not good enough for the occasion.  A cream bombe glacee, or, better still, a Peche Melba.  He saw the red syrup stuff in the little glass plate that it would be served on.  And the peach—­like the cheeks of a lovely child!  At last, if he could manage it—­which he did not at the moment doubt—­something in the savoury omelette line.  And to finish up with, the Egyptian should bring him some coffee.  He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little red cap and his dusky cheeks.  Then, last of all, the man with the cigars and liqueurs wheeled his tray.  A good cigar from the top tray, clipped and lit by the man’s lamp.  Then to choose from the half score of bottles on the lower tray.  Chartreuse, Benedictine, better still, Grand Marmier.

That really was all.  Nothing to do now but lean back in his chair, and between his sips gaze contentedly through his cigar smoke at the lights, the mirrors, the palms, and whirring electric fans and the happy, flushed diners, with that curious, strained, puzzled and amused look that creeps into the backs of people’s eyes at such times.

Then he pictured himself leaving the restaurant, climbing the stairs.  The glass door was thrown open for him to pass through, with a gesture that was positively grandiloquent.

The cold air of the street was fanning his heated cheek.  People were sweeping by him as he walked down Coventry Street.  Ships that passed in the night!  Passionate eyes stabbed him.  Strange scents momentarily swept over him....

There was a completeness of detail in all these pictures that wrung from him a very grim smile.  Would he remember the war as vividly as he then remembered all that?

He saw himself pause in the gutter of Wardour Street while a taxi slid by.  He saw himself survive the lure of the Empire, saw himself deciding not to cross the road, and go down to the Alhambra.