Apparently it had not yet occurred to
anybody that he was not the younger son of some aged king.
He was prayed to walk into a gorgeous suite, consisting of a corridor,
a noble drawing-room (with portrait of His Majesty of Spain on the
walls), a large bedroom with two satin-wood beds, a small bedroom and
a bathroom, all gleaming with patent devices in porcelain and silver
that fully equalled those at home.
Asked if this suite would do, he said it would, trying as well as
he could to imply that he had seen better. Then the dandy produced a
note-book and a pencil and impassively waited. The horrid fact that he
was unelect could no longer be concealed.
"E.H. Machin, Bursley," he said shortly; and added: "Alderman Machin."
After all, why should he be ashamed of being an Alderman?
To his astonishment the dandy smiled very cordially, though always
with profound respect.
"Ah! yes!" said the dandy. It was as though he had said: "We have long
wished for the high patronage of this great reputation." Edward Henry
could make naught of it.
His opinion of Wilkins's went down.
He followed the departing dandy up the corridor to the door of the
suite in an entirely vain attempt to inquire the price of the suite
per day. Not a syllable would pass his lips. The dandy bowed and
vanished. Edward Henry stood lost at his own door, and his wandering
eye caught sight of a pile of trunks near to another door in the main
corridor.
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