out realizing the magnitude of our trespass. But the spirit of the hotel was not long in putting us into our proper places. As we did not realize the rule about meals' starting late, we were the first to enter the precincts of the great silver candelabrum, where stood the Wedgwood vases, the silver pitchers and sugar-bowls, polished anew every day. We were soon made aware of the fact that taking a meal here was no ordinary matter. Two minutes after our entry a gong sounded, and five minutes later the first of the other guests swept in—a spare, white-haired lady bearing in one hand a dish with a china cover, presumably containing butter, and with the other her bottle of medicine. She took no more notice of us than if we were non-existent; but her companion, a younger woman, similarly equipped with a medicine bottle, cast in our direction a scowl of contempt. The other guests entered later, each making us feel in some subtle way what utter aliens we were.
Among the guests were a number of young children. At a table over to my right, a girl of about three entered, and striving to climb to her place at the table, upset herself, and emitted a strangled howl. I was unable to see exactly what had occurred, but one of the guests near me remarked placidly: "It would have been better to have kept them in the nursery." The tears of the young offender were soon quenched by the father, who carried her instantly out of the room. At another table, a second girl entered, aged about five, bearing a small Union Jack. The flag was carefully arranged in the midst of the flowers on the table, and the child sat bolt upright during the rest of the meal, eating and drinking and making faces over her food with the air of one who was at least forty. It became a theme of fascination to me to note how all the guests grew middle-aged as soon as they entered the room. The spirit of the hotel was at work amongst us, holding us all with easy mastery, subduing us all into the colours of its faded tradition, weaving us all into the same pattern, its unbroken magic tapestry stretching back to the days when men spoke with veiled awe of Nelson and Waterloo.
At the centre table, reserved for special guests, sat a heavy-built muddy-faced young man in sporting tweeds, whom we readily placed, thanks to the eagerness with which two waitresses fluttered about him, as being the baronet, heir to the great estates on the hill, which comprised also the hotel. He was entertaining two guests, a man and woman similarly attired, who bore the unmistakable
