In its physical aspects Wilkins’s appeared to him to resemble other hotels—­such as the Majestic.  And so far he was not mistaken.  Once Wilkins’s had not resembled other hotels.  For many years it had deliberately refused to recognize that even the nineteenth century had dawned, and its magnificent antique discomfort had been one of its main attractions to the elect.  For the elect desired nothing but their own privileged society in order to be happy in a hotel.  A hip-bath on a blanket in the middle of the bedroom floor richly sufficed them, provided they could be guaranteed against the calamity of meeting the unelect in the corridors or at table d’hote.  But the rising waters of democracy—­the intermixture of classes—­had reacted adversely on Wilkins’s.  The fall of the Emperor Maximilian of Mexico had given Wilkins’s sad food for thought long, long ago, and the obvious general weakening of the monarchical principle had most considerably shaken it.  Came the day when Wilkins’s reluctantly decided that even it could not fight against the tendency of the whole world, and then, at one superb stroke, it had rebuilt and brought itself utterly up-to-date.

Thus it resembled other hotels. (Save, possibly, in the reticence of its advertisements!  The Majestic would advertise bathrooms as a miracle of modernity, just as though common dwelling-houses had not possessed bathrooms for the past thirty years.  Wilkins’s had superlative bathrooms, but it said nothing about them.  Wilkins’s would as soon have advertised two hundred bathrooms as two hundred bolsters; and for the new Wilkins’s a bathroom was not more modern than a bolster.) Also, other hotels resembled Wilkins’s.  The Majestic, too, had a chamberlain at its portico and an assortment of pages to prove to its clients that they were incapable of performing the simplest act for themselves.  Nevertheless, the difference between Wilkins’s and the Majestic was enormous; and yet so subtle was it that Edward Henry could not immediately detect where it resided.  Then he understood.  The difference between Wilkins’s and the Majestic resided in the theory which underlay its manner.  And the theory was that every person entering its walls was of royal blood until he had admitted the contrary.

Within the hotel it was already night.

Edward Henry self-consciously crossed the illuminated hall, which was dotted with fashionable figures.  He knew not whither he was going, until by chance he saw a golden grille with the word “Reception” shining over it in letters of gold.  Behind this grille, and still further protected by an impregnable mahogany counter, stood three young dandies in attitudes of graceful ease.  He approached them.  The fearful moment was upon him.  He had never in his life been so genuinely frightened.  Abject disgrace might be his portion within the next ten seconds.

Addressing himself to the dandy in the middle he managed to articulate: