I like the Savoy; it never smells foody, and the orchestra chats to
itself instead of shouting at you. I like an orchestra that chats to
itself, and then you can talk without feeling you oughtn't to.
I was very, very tired, and I did feel an awful alien in that place.
It's not personality or breeding that makes you feel at home in big
restaurants and hotels--it's just clothes. It doesn't matter if you've
given your twelve country seats to the country for hospitals, and you've
got the newest thing in Rolls Royce's nestling on the kerb outside; if
you've got the wrong clothes on you feel as out-of-place and
insignificant as a flapper at a silver wedding.
I found the right suite and delivered the box; an ecstatic young woman
rushed out in a violet kimona with black storks on it. I think my
appearance rather nonplussed her, it's horribly embarrassing to wear
decently cut clothes sometimes.
"Are you Madame Cherry's daughter?" she said. "Well--it's frightfully
decent of you to bring it--er--will you have a cocktail or anything?"
I went down the lift with a huge box of Fuller's chocolates tucked under
my arm.