“No doubt they would.”
“Yes, sir, I'm perfectly sure they would—thank you, sir. So this is London. It doesn't look such an awful lot different from Boston or New York so far.”
But Bancroft's, when we reached it, was as unlike a Boston or New York hotel as anything could be. A short, quiet, eminently respectable street, leading from Piccadilly; a street fenced in, on both sides, by three-story, solid, eminently respectable houses of brick and stone. No signs, no street cars, no crowds, no glaring lights. Merely a gas lamp burning over the fanlight of a spotless white door, and the words “Bancroft's Hotel” in mosaic lettering set in a white stone slab in the pavement.
The cab pulled up before the white door and Hephzy and I looked out of the window. The same thought was in both our minds.
“This can't be the place,” said I.
“This isn't a hotel, is it, Hosy?” asked Hephzy.
The white door opened and a brisk, red-cheeked English boy in uniform hastened to the cab. Before he reached it I had seen the lettering in the pavement and knew that, in spite of appearances, we had reached our destination.
“This is it, Hephzy,” I said. “Come.”
The boy opened the cab door and we alighted. Then in the doorway of “Bancroft's” appeared a stout, red-faced and very dignified person, also in uniform. This person wore short “mutton-chop” whiskers and had the air of a member of the Royal Family; that is to say, the air which a member of the Royal Family might be expected to have.
“Good evening, sir,” said the personage, bowing respectfully. The bow was a triumph in itself; not too low, not abject in the least, not familiar; a bow which implied much, but promised nothing; a bow which seemed to demand references, but was far from repellant or bullying. Altogether a wonderful bow.