,
until by chance he saw a golden grille with the word "Reception"
shining over it in letters of gold. Behind this grille, and still
further protected by an impregnable mahogany counter, stood three
young dandies in attitudes of graceful ease. He approached them.
The fearful moment was upon him. He had never in his life been so
genuinely frightened. Abject disgrace might be his portion within the
next ten seconds.

Addressing himself to the dandy in the middle he managed to
articulate:

"What have you got in the way of rooms?"

Could the Five Towns have seen him then, as he waited, it would hardly
have recognized its "card," its character, its mirror of aplomb
and inventive audacity, in this figure of provincial and plebeian
diffidence.

The dandy bowed.

"Do you want a suite, sir?"

"Certainly!" said Edward Henry. Rather too quickly, rather too
defiantly; in fact, rather rudely! A _habitue_ would not have so
savagely hurled back in the dandy's teeth the insinuation that he
wanted only one paltry room.

However, the dandy smiled, accepting with meekness Edward Henry's
sudden arrogance, and consulted a sort of pentateuch that was open in
front of him.

No person in the hall saw Edward Henry's hat fly up into the air and
fall back on his head. But in the imagination of Edward Henry this was
what his hat did.

He was saved. He would have a proud tale for Brindley. The thing was
as simple as the alphabet. You just walked in and they either fell on
your neck or kissed your feet.

Wilkins's, indeed!

A very handsome footman, not only in white gloves but in white calves,
was soon supplicating him to deign to enter a lift. And when he
emerged from the lift another dandy--in a frock-coat of Paradise--was
awaiting him with obeisances. Apparently it had not yet occurred to
anybody that he was not the younger son of some aged king.

He was prayed to walk into a gorgeous suite, consisting of a corridor,
a noble drawing-room (with portrait of His Majesty of Spain on the
walls), a large bedroom with two satin-wood beds, a small bedroom and
a bathroom, all gleaming with patent devices in porcelain and silver
that fully equalled those at home.

Asked if this suite would do, he said it would, trying as well as
he could to imply that he had seen better. Then the dandy produced a
note-book and a pencil and impassively waited. The horrid fact that he
was unelect could no longer be concealed.

"E.H. Machin, Bursley," he