York hotels, which were run by impersonal companies and shareholders
and boards of directors, and consequently lacked the paternal touch
which made the Cosmopolis what it was. At other hotels things went
wrong, and clients complained. At the Cosmopolis things never went
wrong, because he was on the spot to see that they didn't, and as a
result clients never complained. Yet here was this long, thin,
string-bean of an Englishman actually registering annoyance and
dissatisfaction before his very eyes.

"What is your complaint?" he enquired frigidly.

Archie attached himself to the top button of Mr. Brewster's coat,
and was immediately dislodged by an irritable jerk of the other's
substantial body.

"Listen, old thing! I came over to this country to nose about in
search of a job, because there doesn't seem what you might call a
general demand for my services in England. Directly I was demobbed,
the family started talking about the Land of Opportunity and shot me
on to a liner. The idea was that I might get hold of something in
America--"

He got hold of Mr. Brewster's coat-button, and was again shaken off.

"Between ourselves, I've never done anything much in England, and I
fancy the family were getting a bit fed. At any rate, they sent me
over here--"

Mr. Brewster disentangled himself for the third time.