A man in shirt-sleeves was come out of the hotel. He stared at us, rubbed his eyes, stared at us.
“Ho!” called Major Cypress. “Ho, there! Is that Quindle’s speaking?”
The man in shirt-sleeves came through the flame of the lamps. An amiable man, he looked.
“Now remember,” whispered Shirley at large, “no matter how beastly they are to us, we are going to bathe. Let every one speak at once. That will baffle him.”
“Evening,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “Bit late, isn’t it?”
“Not one yet,” said Hugo. “I say, we want to bathe.”
“Can’t have no rooms,” said the man in shirt-sleeves. “Hotel’s full.”
“But we don’t want no rooms!” Venice pleaded. “We only want to bathe....”
“Bar’s closed,” said the man in shirt-sleeves.
“Serve you right,” said Hugo. “But we’ll give you a drink if you want one. Here you are. Beer or champagne?”