consisting of two bedrooms with a common sitting-room and bathroom.

In his immaculate evening dress, he was a Beau Brummell among hotel
clerks, that man. The luggage of the American gentleman should be
fetched in the morning. The gentleman's papers? There was no hurry: the
Herr Leutnant would explain to his friend the forms that had to be
filled in: they could be given to the waiter in the morning. Would the
gentlemen take anything before retiring? A whisky-soda--ah! whisky was
getting scarce. No? Nothing? He had the honour to wish the gentlemen
pleasant repose.

We went to the lift in procession, Beau Brummell in front, then a
waiter, then ourselves and the gold-braided hall porter bringing up the
rear. One or two people were sitting in the lounge, attended by a
platoon of waiters. The whole place gave an impression of wealth and
luxury altogether out of keeping with British ideas of the stringency of
life in Germany under the British blockade. I could not help reflecting
to myself mournfully that Germany did not seem to feel the pinch very
much.

At the lift the procession bowed itself away and we went up in charge of
the liftman, a gorgeous individual who looked like one of the Pope's
Swiss Guards. We reached the centresol in an instant. The Lieutenant led
the way along the dimly lighted corridor.

"Here is the sitting-room," he said, opening a door. "This is my room,
this the bathroom, and this," he flung open the fourth door, "is your
room!"

He stood aside to let me pass. The lights in the room were full on. In