Some time in November news that was more disturbing than the meteoric passing of his divorced wife brought back the little intent frown to Sorrell's forehead. Mr. Roland called him in one evening into his sitting-room. There was whisky, a siphon, and glasses on the table, and two armchairs were drawn up before the fire.
"I want to talk about things, Stephen. Help yourself and sit down."
Roland's room was full of bachelor comforts, but Sorrell, as he helped himself to whisky and soda, had a feeling that Mr. Roland was about to speak of uncomfortable things. For there were certain doubts that of late had grown to a distant shadowiness in his mind. Sorrell was a man of detail. He kept in his little note-book a daily record of the number of people who passed through the hotel.
"We are not paying our way, Stephen."
"I wondered, sir."
The soda from the siphon hissed into Mr. Roland's glass. He was as deliberate as usual, but his quiet blue eyes had a calculating look. Sorrell, in front of the fire, felt a chilly sensation trickling down his spine.
"You are a man with a head. Besides, one wants to talk sometimes. Have you any idea?"
"We have never been quite full up, sir."
"No."
"And the figures have been dropping."
"I expected that. Look here,—I have been working out a table of averages. A statistician could draw a nice series of curves from them. Anyhow—it shows our position pretty clearly."
He picked up a paper, and crossing to the fire, sat down, his glass in his hand.
"I find that with forty out of our sixty rooms occupied we cover expenses. Our summer average was 47, our autumn 36, our present 29. Take three four-monthly periods. That gives an average of 37, which means that we are losing roughly at the rate of three rooms a day."
"Do you count double and single rooms, sir?"
"I have allowed for that."
"Well, is that so bad, sir, for the first year?"
