"There, my dear Sir; there's your room, and I'm only charmed to have your company."—Extract from Speech of the Hearty Hotel-Proprietor to Un-illustrious Visitor.
Generally understood that Bournemouth is the Monte Carlo, or Nice, or Monaco, or Riviera of England. May be it is; if so, Monte Carlo, and the rest can't be so hot in summer as they are painted, for Bournemouth just now is (I speak of the last week in July) at a delightfully mean temperature,—if I may be allowed to use the word "mean" without implying any sort of disrespect for the Bournemouthers.
Bournemouth apparently crowded. Do not remember it on any previous occasional visit, in autumn or spring, so crowded as at this present moment. Odd!
"Not at all," explains flyman; "British Medical Association here. All sorts of festivities. Hotels all crowded. Lodgings too."
If the worst come to the worst, I shall have to spend a night in a bathing-machine. Not bad: if fine. Can be called early; then sea-bath; also man to bring hot water and towels. While speculating on this probability, we arrive at
Royal Bath Hotel.—Flag flying, showing that British Medical Association Family are at home. Other flags elsewhere express same idea. B.M.A. at home everywhere, of course. Array of servants in brown liveries and gilt buttons in outer hall, preparing to receive visitors. Pleasant and courteous Manager—evidently Manager—with foreign accent receives me smilingly. "Any difficulty about rooms?" I ask, nervously. "None whatever in your case," returns courteous Manager, bowing most graciously as he emphasises the possessive pronoun. In the hall are trim young ladies, pleasant matronly ladies, chorus of young porters and old porters, all smiling, and awaiting my lightest bow and heaviest baggage. I am "to be shown up." (Absit omen!) However, I am shown up. Charming room: sea-view, nearly all the views from the windows of Royal Bath are sea-views, take the Bath which way you will; and the welcome is so warm, it ought to be The Warm Bath Hotel.
I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall. "Let me see," I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; "where's my waterproof with two capes? I've missed—er—" I hesitate, being still uncertain.
A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room. He pauses in his swift career, as if catching my last words. I hear him repeat, "Missed—er—" and then "Capes." To this he adds, sharply, "Yes, Sir, I'll tell him," and vanishes.
"Tell him?" Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes. But to make assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out, "Wrapper—with two capes—probably in the hall—don't see it here." To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the Boots comes up to me, "Capes in the hall," then something inaudible, finishing with, "up there."
I return to my apartment. Lovely view. Open window. Balmy and refreshing breeze. Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am turning to shut it, when "to me enters" as the old stage-directions have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached, white-vested, and generally "in full fig."—(Mem.—Write to Notes and Queries, Unde derivatur—"Full fig?") who advances briskly but quietly towards me. My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the number of his room. At least, I hope the mistake isn't on my part, or on the urbane Manager's part, in putting me up here. Smart visitor bows. I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, "Delighted to meet you; my name is CAPES. The porter told me you wished to see me. I am sure, Sir, I am more than delighted to see you!" and he proffers his hand, which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful at seeing me again. Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the mistake is, and how it has arisen. A brilliant flash of memory recalls to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs to Mr. CAPES,—Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c. This amiable gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself. I also am delighted. "Very kind of him to take this trouble," I say.