I am looking for something which has probably been left in the hall.  “Let me see,” I say, musingly, to myself, as I look round; “where’s my waterproof with two capes?  I’ve missed—­er—­” I hesitate, being still uncertain.

A sprightly Boots is going hurriedly out of the room.  He pauses in his swift career, as if catching my last words.  I hear him repeat, “Missed—­er—­” and then “Capes.”  To this he adds, sharply, “Yes, Sir, I’ll tell him,” and vanishes.

“Tell him?” Oh, probably he means that he will tell the other Boots to bring up my waterproof with the double capes.  But to make assurance doubly sure, I go to the top of the stairs and call out, “Wrapper—­with two capes—­probably in the hall—­don’t see it here.”  To which, from somewhere down below in obscurity, the voice of the Boots comes up to me, “Capes in the hall,” then something inaudible, finishing with, “up there.”

I return to my apartment.  Lovely view.  Open window.  Balmy and refreshing breeze.  Becoming aware of the fact that I have left the door open, expecting return of Boots with waterproof wrapper, I am turning to shut it, when “to me enters” as the old stage-directions have it, a distinguished-looking gentleman, bearded and moustached, white-vested, and generally “in full fig.”—­(Mem.—­Write to Notes and Queries, Unde derivatur—­“Full fig?”) who advances briskly but quietly towards me.  My visitor has evidently made some mistake in the number of his room.  At least, I hope the mistake isn’t on my part, or on the urbane Manager’s part, in putting me up here.  Smart visitor bows.  I am about to explain that he is in error, and that this is my room, when he deprecates any remark by saying, “Delighted to meet you; my name is CAPES.  The porter told me you wished to see me.  I am sure, Sir, I am more than delighted to see you!” and he proffers his hand, which I take and shake heartily, at the same time wondering where on earth we have met before, and why he should be so effusively joyful at seeing me again.  Suddenly, as I release his hand, I see where the mistake is, and how it has arisen.  A brilliant flash of memory recalls to my mind that in an advertisement I have read how this hotel belongs to Mr. CAPES,—­Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S., &c., &c.  This amiable gentleman who bids me welcome so heartily is the Proprietor himself.  I also am delighted.  “Very kind of him to take this trouble,” I say.

“Not at all,” he won’t hear of there being any special kindness on his part.  And as to trouble!—­well, he scouts that idea with an energetic wave of his hand.  Now, he wants to know, what will I do, where will I go, what will I take?  Section A. of the Medical Association is meeting in the Town Hall, but I shall be late for that; or “perhaps,” suggests the considerate Proprietor, “you would like to rest a bit before dinner at seven.  Then there’s the Concert afterwards.  I have tickets for you, and no doubt on your return you’ll have a cigar in the smoking-room with your friends, and be glad to get to bed.”