The Five Towns Hotel had made fortunes, and still made them. It was
large and imposing and sombre. The architect, who knew his business,
had designed staircases, corridors, and accidental alcoves on the
scale of a palace; so that privacy amid publicity could always be
found within its walls. It was superficially old-fashioned, and in
reality modern. It had a genuine chef, with sub-chefs, good waiters
whose sole weakness was linguistic, and an apartment of carven oak
with a vast counterfeit eye that looked down on you from the ceiling.
It was ready for anything--a reception to celebrate the nuptials of
a maid, a lunch to a Cabinet Minister with an axe to grind in the
district, or a sale by auction of house-property with wine _ad
libitum_ to encourage bids.
But its chief social use was perhaps as a retreat for men who were
tired of a world inhabited by two sexes. Sundry of the great hotels
of Britain have forgotten this ancient function, and are as full of
frills, laces, colour, and soft giggles as a London restaurant, so
that in Manchester, Liverpool, and Glasgow a man in these days has
no safe retreat except the gloominess of a provincial club. The Five
Towns Hotel has held fast to old tradition in this respect.
Pages:
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473