If there was one thing more than another that annoyed the Grand
Babylon - put its back up, so to speak - it was to be compared with,
or to be mistaken for, an American hotel. The Grand Babylon was
resolutely opposed to American methods of eating, drinking, and
lodging - but especially American methods of drinking. The
resentment of Jules, on being requested to supply Mr Theodore
Racksole with an Angel Kiss, will therefore be appreciated.
'Anybody with Mr Theodore Racksole?' asked Jules, continuing his
conversation with Miss Spencer. He put a scornful stress on every
syllable of the guest's name.
'Miss Racksole - she's in No. 111.'
Jules paused, and stroked his left whisker as it lay on his gleaming
white collar.
'She's where?' he queried, with a peculiar emphasis.
'No. 111. I couldn't help it. There was no other room with a
bathroom and dressing-room on that floor.' Miss Spencer's voice
had an appealing tone of excuse.
'Why didn't you tell Mr Theodore Racksole and Miss Racksole that
we were unable to accommodate them?'
'Because Babs was within hearing.'
Only three people in the wide world ever dreamt of applying to Mr
Felix Babylon the playful but mean abbreviation - Babs: those
three were Jules, Miss Spencer, and Rocco. Jules had invented it.
No one but he would have had either the wit or the audacity to do
so.
'You'd better see that Miss Racksole changes her room to-night,'
Jules said after another pause.
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