“Yes, sir,” said the man with waiter-like acquiescence; “they do bungle things sometimes at that junction.”
“We were on our way to Abbeylands,” said Harold, “but those idiots on the platform allowed us to get into the wrong carriages—the carriages that were going to Ashmead. We shall stay here for the night. The station-master recommended us to go here, and I’m much obliged to him. It’s the only sensible—”
“Yes, sir: he’s a brother to Mrs. Mark—Mrs. Mark is our proprietor,” said the waiter.
“Mrs. Mark,” said Harold.
“Yes, sir: she’s our proprietor.”
Harold thought that, perhaps, when the owner of an hotel was a woman, she might reasonably be called the proprietor.
“Oh, well, perhaps a maid might show my—my wife to a room, while I see what we can get for dinner—supper, I suppose we should call it.”
The middle-aged woman who was lighting the candles came forward smiling, as she adroitly extinguished the wax taper by the application of her finger and thumb. With her Beatrice disappeared.
Harold quite expected that he was about to come upon the weak element in the management of this picturesque inn. But when he found that a cold pheasant as well as some hot fish was available for supper, he admitted that the place was perfect. There was no wine card, but the old waiter promised a Champagne for which, he said, Mr. Lampson, of Abbeylands, had once made an offer.
“That will do for us very well,” said Harold. “Mr. Lampson would not make an offer for anything—wine least of all—of which he was uncertain.”