“I want to book on the Autocratic, sailing tomorrow from Liverpool, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Quite so,” said his clerk, not without condescension. “For yourself, may I awsk?”
“For myself alone.”
“Then-Q.” The clerk fetched a cabin-plot.
“I’m afraid, sir,” he said, removing a pencil from behind his ear the better to make his meaning clear, “there’s not much choice. It’s quite late to book, you know; and this is the rush season for westbound traffic; everything’s just about full up.”
“I understand; but still you can make room for me somewhere, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. Quite so, indeed. It’s only a question of what you’d like. Now we have a cabine de luxe—”
“Not for me,” said Staff firmly.
“Then-Q.... The only other accommodation I can offer you is a two-berth stateroom on the main-deck.”
“An outside room?”