In a word, the place would have
atmosphere; not the loud and blaring, elegance which I had observed in
the smartest of New York establishments, with shrieking decorations
and tables jammed together, but an atmosphere of distinction which,
though subtle, would yet impress shop-assistants, plate-layers and
road-menders, hodmen, carters, cattle-persons--in short the
middle-class native.
Cousin Egbert, I fear, was not properly impressed with my plan, for he
looked longingly at the wall-placards, yet he made the most loyal
pretence to this effect, even when I explained further that I should
probably have no printed menu, which I have always regarded as the
ultimate vulgarity in a place where there are any proper relations
between patrons and steward. He made one wistful, timid reference to
the "Try Our Merchant's Lunch for 35 cents," after which he gave in
entirely, particularly when I explained that ham and eggs in the best
manner would be forthcoming at his order, even though no placard
vaunted them or named their price. Advertising one's ability to serve
ham and eggs, I pointed out to him, would be quite like advertising
that one was a member of the Church of England.
After this he meekly enough accompanied me to his bank, where he
placed a thousand pounds to my credit, adding that I could go as much
farther as I liked, whereupon I set in motion the machinery for
decorating and furnishing the place, with particular attention to
silver, linen, china, and glassware, all of which, I was resolved,
should have an air of its own.
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