Publisher's Synopsis
It was Warrington's invariable habit-when no business or social engagement pressed him togo elsewhere-to drop into a certain quaint little restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. Itwas out of the way; the throb and rattle of the great commercial artery became like the far-offmurmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying. He always made it a point to dine alone, undisturbed. The proprietor nor his silent-footed waiters had the slightest idea who Warringtonwas. To them he was simply a profitable customer who signified that he dined there in order tobe alone. His table was up stairs. Below, there was always the usual dinner crowd till theatertime; and the music had the faculty of luring his thoughts astray, being, as he was, fonder ofmusic than of work. As a matter of fact, it was in this little restaurant that he winnowed the day'sideas, revamped scenes, trimmed the rough edges of his climaxes, revised this epigram orrejected this or that line; all on the backs of envelopes and on the margins of newspapers. In hisden at his bachelor apartments, he worked; but here he dreamed, usually behind the soothing, opalescent veil of Madame Nicotin
