The man was only a waiter, but he was as solemn as a butler, as he opened the door of a room that seemed ready to do duty as a coffee-room. It had a low groined ceiling, and long narrow windows.
An elderly maid was lighting candles in sconces round the walls.
“Really,” said Harold, “we may be glad that the bungling at the junction brought us here.”
“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.”