London, 1888. Not an inviting vision, is it. Jack the Ripper roams at night, rather irritated by the women and children falling on the streets, drunk on 90 proof gin. The London 'pea soupers' cough when they exit their dim factories, further irritated by the whistlers. The middle classes cover every inch of their wallpaer with pictures, irritated that they haven't been invited to any parties for the upcoming Season. Londoners deserved a respite. It was known as The Pub. If they discovered the Princess Louise in Holborn, life was much, much prettier.
Inside, golden light dances off of the etched glass gilt mirrors that are everywhere, the marble, the shiny mahogany, the electric lights, the mosaic floors and the leather.
(Note the Cockney hilarity.)
Its trademark is that it still has the Victorian rooms preserved, small areas to close the door on people you don't like.
If you're in London, go to the Princess Louise to understand how even Princess Louise, daughter of Queen Victoria, became a flirt. You'll find Sam Smith's pub prices wonderfully un-London (i.e. cheap). If you're a man, the toilets are rather legendary for being craved marble sculptures.
The image below is a corridor. Victorians, fortunately, didn't quite get minimalism.