A man makes reservations for two at a fine restaurant, but doesn’t expect his guest until the dinner is over.
This story is from Lord Dunsany’s Fifty-One Tales, originally published in 1915, and is read aloud by Kay Mack.
You can read the story here, or online at: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7838
A young man came into an ornate restaurant at eight o’clock in London.
He was alone, but two places had been laid at the table which was reserved for him. He had chosen the dinner very carefully, by letter a week before.
A waiter asked him about the other guest.
“You probably won’t see him till the coffee comes,” the young man told him; so he was served alone.
Those at adjacent tables might have noticed the young man continually addressing the empty chair and carrying on a monologue with it throughout his elaborate dinner.
“I think you knew my father,” he said to it over the soup.
“I sent for you this evening,” he continued, “because I want you to do me a good turn; in fact I must insist on it.”
There was nothing eccentric about the man except for this habit of addressing an empty chair, certainly he was eating as good a dinner as any sane man could wish for.
After the Burgundy had been served he became more voluble in his monologue, not that he spoiled his wine by drinking excessively.
“We have several acquaintances in common,” he said. “I met King Seti a year ago in Thebes. I think he has altered very little since you knew him. I thought his forehead a little low for a king’s. Cheops has left the house that he built for your reception, he must have prepared for you for years and years. I suppose you have seldom been entertained like that. I ordered this dinner over a week ago. I thought then that a lady might have come with me, but as she wouldn’t I’ve asked you. She may not after all be as lovely as Helen of Troy. Was Helen very lovely? Not when you knew her, perhaps. You were lucky in Cleopatra, you must have known her when she was in her prime.
“You never knew the mermaids nor the fairies nor the lovely goddesses of long ago, that’s where we have the best of you.”
He was silent when the waiters came to his table, but rambled merrily on as soon as they left, still turned to the empty chair.
“You know I saw you here in London only the other day. You were on a motor bus going down Ludgate Hill. It was going much too fast. London is a good place. But I shall be glad enough to leave it. It was in London that I met the lady I that was speaking about. If it hadn’t been for London I probably shouldn’t have met her, and if it hadn’t been for London she probably wouldn’t have had so much besides me to amuse her. It cuts both ways.”
He paused once to order coffee, gazing earnestly at the waiter and putting a sovereign in his hand. “Don’t let it be chicory,” said he.
The waiter brought the coffee, and the young man dropped a tabloid of some sort into his cup.
“I don’t suppose you come here very often,” he went on. “Well, you probably want to be going. I haven’t taken you much out of your way, there is plenty for you to do in London.”
Then having drunk his coffee he fell on to the floor by a foot of the empty chair, and a doctor who was dining in the room bent over him and announced to the anxious manager the visible presence of the young man’s guest.