“No”—looking round the low sitting-room with narrow windows and old-fashioned furniture.
“Lord, how it smells of musty hay!” exclaimed Sir Harry.
“And flowers,” added his friend. “I say, what roses!—yes, and a garden at the back”—walking over. “I wonder what sort of people come here?” and, staring out at the unexpectedly large pleasance, with its wide gravel walks, and old-fashioned benches, “I say,” to the waiter, “what sort of people stay here?”
“The best sort, sir,” replied the waiter, who had been secretly indignant at the bold, cheap air of these motoring gents. “People comes here that like comfort and quiet. No cheap trippers. There’s some took in at other hotels as Mrs. Hogan would have the hall washed after, if they had the impudence to put a foot in it! We have our own farm, the finest poultry in the country, fruit and vegetables, good cars and horses on hire, and”—as a grand climax—“a bath-room.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Sir Harry, putting up his eyeglass.
“Yes. At present we have his lordship’s sister’s man of business here. I mean the man of business’ sister of his lordship.”
“The man of business’ sister of his lordship,” drawled Captain Deverell. “What the dickens do you mean?”
The cool, superior air of the “young high flyer,” as he mentally termed him, inflamed the waiter’s wrath; his Celtic temper rose fast; he resolved to give this contemptuous inquirer one for his nob.
“Miss Usher, sir, I mean.”
“Oh, old Usher’s sister,” said the captain, turning to his friend. “Then”—to the waiter—“is Mr. Usher staying here too?”