“I don’t see what you want to be so secretive for,” she complained.
“Nothing to be secretive about. Nobody goes there much now. It was only a craze.”
This sounded puzzling.
“One gets so out of things when one is away,” said Bundle in a sad voice.
“Oh, you haven’t missed much,” said Bill. “Everyone went there just to say they had been. It was boring really, and, my God, you can get tired of fried fish.”
“Where did everyone go?”
“To the Seven Dials Club, of course,” said Bill, staring. “Wasn’t that what you were asking about?”
“I didn’t know it by that name,” said Bundle.
“Used to be a slummy sort of district round about Tottenham Court Road way. It’s all pulled down and cleaned up now. But the Seven Dials Club keeps to the old atmosphere. Fried fish and chips. General squalor. Kind of East End stunt, but awfully handy to get at after a show.”
“It’s a night club, I suppose,” said Bundle. “Dancing and all that?”
“That’s it. Awfully mixed crowd. Not a posh affair. Artists, you know, and all sorts of odd women and a sprinkling of our lot. They say quite a lot of things, but I think that that’s all bunkum myself, just said to make the place go.”
“Good,” said Bundle. “We’ll go there tonight.”
“Oh! I shouldn’t do that,” said Bill. His embarrassment had returned. “I tell you it’s played out. Nobody goes there now.”