When you depart--and, abroad, this is generally about daybreak--"Mr."
is always on the spot, haughty, as becomes a man about to be paid, but
considerate; there is a bouquet in petticoats for the Entresol--even,
for me, a condescending word. "_When you see_ Mr. SHONES _in London,
you tell him next year I make se Gulf-Links._" I don't know who
the dickens JONES may be, but I snigger. It all springs from that
miserable fiction of being an _Habitue_. "_Sans adieux!_" ejaculates
"Mr.," who is great at languages; so am I, but, somehow, find myself
saying "Good-bye" quite naturally. _A propos_ of languages, "Mr."
is very patient with the Ladies who _will_ speak to him in so-called
French or German, when they say, "_Ou est le Portier?_" or "_Es
ist sehr schoen heute_," he replies, in the genuine tongue. I once
overheard a lady discussing the chances of rest and quiet in the
"Grand Hotel." "_Oui c'est une grande reste_." said she. It only
puzzled "Mr." for a moment. "_Parfaitement, Madame; c'est ravissant,
n'est-ce pas?_" and then "Mr." sold her the little Hand-book, composed
by the Clergyman, on which he receives a commission.
* * * * *
NEED I SAY MORE?
I loved--and need I say she was a woman?
And need I say I thought her just divine?
Her beauty (like this rhyme) was quite uncommon.
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