'
'If it's an American drink, I fear we don't keep it, sir.' The voice of
Jules fell icily distinct, and several men glanced round uneasily, as
if to deprecate the slightest disturbance of their calm. The
appearance of the person to whom Jules was speaking, however,
reassured them somewhat, for he had all the look of that expert,
the travelled Englishman, who can differentiate between one hotel
and another by instinct, and who knows at once where he may
make a fuss with propriety, and where it is advisable to behave
exactly as at the club. The Grand Babylon was a hotel in whose
smoking-room one behaved as though one was at one's club.
'I didn't suppose you did keep it, but you can mix it, I guess, even
in this hotel.'
'This isn't an American hotel, sir.' The calculated insolence of the
words was cleverly masked beneath an accent of humble
submission.
The alert, middle-aged man sat up straight, and gazed placidly at
Jules, who was pulling his famous red side-whiskers.
'Get a liqueur glass,' he said, half curtly and half with
good-humoured tolerance, 'pour into it equal quantities of
maraschino, cream, and cr?me de menthe. Don't stir it; don't
shake it. Bring it to me. And, I say, tell the bar-tender - '
'Bar-tender, sir?'
'Tell the bar-tender to make a note of the recipe, as I shall probably
want an Angel Kiss every evening before dinner so long as this
weather lasts.
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