MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON
IN the hall of the Café Royal the other day I met one of the younger and more gifted of our Labour politicians. He had come in from Regent Street and I was going out. He shook the rain from his hat on to the thick warm carpet. "Ha! Ha! " he said heartily, " on such nights, in the old days, you people would begin to think about the Riviera." By " you people," I suppose, he meant the rich: by " the Riviera," I suppose, he meant sunshine and mimosa and the tense murmurs of Monte Carlo. I have never cared overmuch for those frowsy latitudes, but it is sad to be reminded that there will be no more cakes and ale; and especially at a moment when one is about to plunge into the cold pool of London's black-out. I turned up the collar of my great-coat; I gave a vicious tug to the brim of my hat; I tested my torch and found it wanting; I entered the revolving cubicle which propelled me into the outer darkness. Standing still upon the pavement I accustomed my eyes (as instructed by the Ministry of Transport) to the wet velvet with which I was confronted. It was as if some luxury-liner had foundered suddenly behind me in a lonely ocean. Gone were the chrysanthemums, the laughter, the carpets, and the sound of plates. A few distant flash-lights showed green or red or gold across the waters. And through the howl of wind and wave pierced the screams of those who were forsaken. " Taxi! " They wailed, " Taxi! Taxi! " I set my teeth and took the plunge.
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