I employed the theory of the subconscious attraction of
an often-seen, though unknown face.
I soon ascertained that my lady and her friends followed all the whims
of London society. One in particular interested me. They were in the
habit of frequenting Carlton Terrace between three and four every
afternoon and eating strawberries. I also went to eat strawberries.
Carlton Terrace during the strawberry season is an exquisitely colored
fashion plate of life's butterflies and drones. This throng of
fashion and beauty, marked with its air of distinction carelessly
abandoned to pleasure, ever murmuring pleasant nothings and tossing
light persiflage from table to table, is truly an interesting study of
the lighter sides of life. One sits on a magnificent markee-covered,
glass-enclosed terrace, overlooking the Thames with its ever-changing
scenes of fussy tugs and squat barges.
At Carlton Terrace one pays well for the subtleties of eating. By
courteous consideration of the waitresses I managed to secure a
much-coveted outside corner table, near to the one reserved for the
lady and her party. I always made it a point to withhold my entrance
until the lady was in the terrace; then I would stroll in alone, take
a seat alone, and show a desire to be alone. They have a very clever
way of serving strawberries at the Carlton. A vine, growing from ten
to twelve large luscious berries is brought on in a silver pot.
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