“Good-morning,” he replied.  “I expect you are, but my wife is coming up to town this afternoon, and we have only a few days together.  We want to be as central as possible.  Have you a small suite over the week-end?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and pulled the big book toward her.  She ran a finger down the page.  “Four-twenty,” she said—­“double bedroom, sitting-room, and bathroom, how would that do?”

“It sounds capital,” said Peter.  “May I go and see it?”

She turned in her seat, reached for a key, and touched a button.  A man appeared, soundlessly on the thick, rich carpet.  “Show this officer four-twenty, will you?” she said, and turned to someone else.  What means so much to some of us is everyday business to others.

Peter followed across the hall and into a lift.  They went up high, got out in a corridor, took a turn to the right, and stopped before a door numbered 420.  The man opened it.  Peter was led into a little hall, with two doors leading from it.  The first room was the sitting-room.  It was charmingly furnished and very cosy, a couple of good prints on the walls, wide fireplace, a tall standard lamp, some delightfully easy chairs—­all this he took in at a glance.  He walked to the window and looked out.  Far below was the great thoroughfare, and beyond a wilderness of roofs and spires.  He stood and gazed at it.  London seemed a different, place up there.  He felt remote, and looked again into the street.  Its business rolled on indifferent to him, and unaware.  He glanced back into the snug pretty little room.  How easy it all was, how secure!  “This is excellent,” he said, “Show me the bedroom.”

“This way, sir,” said, the man.

The bedroom was large and airy.  A pretty light paper covered the walls, and two beds stood against one of them, side by side.  The sun shone in at the big double windows and fell on the white paint of the woodwork, the plate-glass tops of the toilet-tables, and the thick cream-coloured carpet.  A door was open on his right.  He walked across, and looked in there too.  A tiled bathroom, he saw it was, the clean towels on the highly polished brass rail heated by steam, the cork-mat against the wall, the shower, douche, and spray all complete, even the big cake of delicious-looking soap on its sliding rack across the bath.  He looked as a man in a fairy-story might look.  It was as if an enchanted palace, with the princess just round the corner, had been offered him.  Smiling at the conceit, he turned to the man.  “I didn’t notice the telephone,” he said; “I suppose it is installed?”

“In each room, sir,” said the man.

“That will do,” said Peter.  “It will suit me admirably.  Have my baggage sent up, will you, and say that I engage the suite.  I will be down presently.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, and departed.