“What time does the show start?” said the first young man, who was staying at the hotel. He was engaged in manufacturing motor cars in a provincial town and did not often visit London.
“Half-past eight,” said the other young man, who lived in London and was uproariously in the publicity business.
“Just time for a drink, then,” said the other, ringing the bell.
After a minute or two a waiter appeared, a vague, oldish chap, the sort of waiter you expect to find in that sort of hotel.
“Two whiskies,” said the first young man.
“Two whiskies, sir,” the waiter replied, in a colorless voice. “Yes, sir.” And drifted away.
The second young man yawned and then glanced round the room. “What the devil made you come here?” he demanded. “It’s a ghastly hole.”
“Pretty dismal, I admit. Fellow at the works, one of our designers, said he’d stayed here and it was all right, fairly cheap, and quiet at night.”
“Quiet! It’s dead and buried. Still, I suppose you’re out most of the time.”
“Gosh, yes. If I wasn’t I’d try something livelier than this,” the visitor replied, as the waiter returned with the drinks. “Thanks. How much? Here you are, and keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the waiter.
“Very quiet here, waiter.”
“Very quiet just now, sir.” And the waiter picked up his tray and departed.
“I suppose that poor devil will spend the rest of the night waiting for somebody to come in.”
“He will,” said the second young man. “Not exactly a whirl of excitement, eh? What a life!”
“What a life!”
“Well, cheerio!”
“Cheerio! I suppose we’d better push off if we want to see that show.” They swallowed their drinks and pushed off, leaving two little glasses in the wilderness of the lounge, which sank into deepest quiet and melancholy again.
It was some time, however, before the waiter cleared away those two glasses. He was not very busy and he was not, as a rule, neglectful of his duty, but it happened that he had been waiting for the telephone bell to ring for him, and it rang before he returned to the lounge.
“Is it for me?” he inquired, eagerly, and for the fifth time that evening.
The reception clerk, who knew what it was all about, nodded, and regarded him sympathetically. “I’ll put it right through to the staff room.”
There was nothing colorless about his voice now, as he answered the call. It was not the voice of a waiter at all, and there was a terrible urgency in it. As he spoke, a faint ring of moisture appeared just below the line of his graying hair.
“Hello, hello! Yes, that’s me,” he cried. “A daughter, eh? Yes, yes, that’s all right. Is she? You’re sure about that? Both of them? Did she say anything? Did she? Is that right? Oh, that’s fine. Yes, of course. How soon? All right, then, I’ll be round at ten in the morning. And thank you very much. Yes, I’m sure she is. Thank you. And tell her how glad I am, don’t forget that. Yes, at ten.”
After he had put down the receiver, he drew a long breath, waited a moment and wiped his forehead, then went back to the office. “It’s all right,” he said to the reception clerk. “I’ve finished.”
“What’s the news?” that young lady inquired.
“A daughter, and they’re both doing fine.”
“That’s good. What’s the baby like?”
“Only a little one — six pounds and a bit,” replied the waiter.
“The little ones are nearly always the best. That’s what my cousin says, and she does maternity work. Well, you’re a grandfather now.”
“So I am,” said the waiter. “I never thought of that. An hour ago I was just a father, and now I’m a grandfather. That’s queer, you know.”
“It’s a queer world, that’s what I always say. Let me see, haven’t I met your daughter? Hasn’t she been round here to see you once or twice?”
“That’s the one,” said the waiter, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. It suggested that the baby had been lucky to find such a mother, that he had been lucky to have such a daughter, and that even the reception clerk had been lucky in merely meeting such a girl. A proud grandfather, a partly relieved though still anxious father, the waiter now withdrew, to think things over. It had been his job to see his daughter through this queer and difficult time. It was her first baby, and her husband, a good lad but not quite as steady as he might be, was now trying his hand at being a steward on a big cargo boat, and at this moment was somewhere off Sydney. If you had seen the waiter clearing away those two glasses in the Brown Lounge, you would not have realized that his forehead was still damp with perspiration and that his head was humming with plans.
Nothing happened in the Brown Lounge until a little after nine. Then the massive sideboard, the grim armchairs, and the sad steel engravings were disturbed by the entrance of a woman in a rather dubious fur coat. She still carried with her, at once defiantly and anxiously, the red and bronze remains of somewhat hard good looks. She belonged to that mysterious class of women who are often found behaving “like perfect ladies” in places that perfect ladies usually contrive to avoid. Once inside the lounge, this woman rang the bell and then made several movements that suggested, with truth, that she was in an agitated state of mind.
The bell was answered by our friend the waiter. He came in as a waiter, but the moment he saw who it was that had rung the bell, all the waiterishness departed from him and he looked what he was — namely, a surprised, annoyed middle-aged man.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Wanted to talk to you, Joe,” the woman replied, promptly, “and I thought the easiest way would be to come in here and not go asking for you at the back. Nobody’ll come in, will they?”
“They might.”
“Yes, and then they might not,” she retorted.
“Well?”
“Listen, Joe,” she said, in a very different tone of voice, “what about Alice? How’s she getting on?”
“Who told you about Alice?”
“What’s it matter who told me? If you want to know, I saw Mrs. Brewer, and she told me you’d told her Alice was going to have a baby. Joe, tell me — what’s happened? Is it all right?”
The waiter was silent for a moment.
The woman gave a little yelp of impatience, then seized his arm and shook it. “Come on. Don’t stand there like that. What is it? My God, if she’s—”
“She’s all right, at least so far she is,” he told her, curtly. “It happened tonight and she’s doing well.”
“What is it?”
“A girl.”
“A girl!” the woman cried, with a little emotional gulp. “A girl! Poor little devil! And they’re all right?”
“They’re both all right.”
The woman laughed, not very pleasantly. “And now I’m a grandmother. My God! — think of that. Grannie! That puts the years on you, doesn’t it? But never mind about that. Listen, Joe — and I’m serious now — I’ve got to see her. Where is she?”
“Don’t you worry. She’s all right.”
“Don’t be a fool, Joe. I’ve got to see her now. Where is she?”