Her knowledge of Bradshaw, of steamship
services, and the programmes of theatres and music-halls was
unrivalled; yet she never travelled, she never went to a theatre or a
music-hall. She seemed to spend the whole of her life in that
official lair of hers, imparting information to guests, telephoning
to the various departments, or engaged in intimate conversations
with her special friends on the staff, as at present.
'Who's Number 107?' Jules asked this black-robed lady.
Miss Spencer examined her ledgers.
'Mr Theodore Racksole, New York.'
'I thought he must be a New Yorker,' said Jules, after a brief,
significant pause, 'but he talks as good English as you or me. Says
he wants an "Angel Kiss" - maraschino and cream, if you please -
every night. I'll see he doesn't stop here too long.'
Miss Spencer smiled grimly in response. The notion of referring to
Theodore Racksole as a 'New Yorker' appealed to her sense of
humour, a sense in which she was not entirely deficient. She knew,
of course, and she knew that Jules knew, that this Theodore
Racksole must be the unique and only Theodore Racksole, the
third richest man in the United States, and therefore probably in
the world. Nevertheless she ranged herself at once on the side of
Jules.
Just as there was only one Racksole, so there was only one Jules,
and Miss Spencer instinctively shared the latter's indignation at the
spectacle of any person whatsoever, millionaire or Emperor,
presuming to demand an 'Angel Kiss', that unrespectable
concoction of maraschino and cream, within the precincts of the
Grand Babylon.
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