THE MIDLAND HOTEL (ST. PANCRAS)
The dramatic moment of the evening came when Juliette, the new French
maid, with despair painted on her face, out of breath, and with her
bonnet on one side of her head, came running into the dining-room at
the Midland Hotel, and told Miss Dainty that the dog had escaped. Miss
Dainty for one moment was overwhelmed, for she pictured Jack in fierce
combat with every big dog in London; but, recovering herself, said that
she wanted boy messengers. The wild duck was getting cold, the manager
was beginning to look unhappy, the waiter was sympathetic but helpless,
the French maid was weeping. If messenger boys could straighten out the
difficulties Miss Dainty should have had a dozen; but she said that she
only wanted three. So three little boys stood in a row and received
their instructions. One was to go, in a cab, to Miss Dainty's flat to
see whether Jack had returned there; another, in a cab, was to go round
to all the places that Jack had been taken to during the day, chiefly
milliners' and dress-makers' and bonnet-makers' shops, to see whether
he had wandered away to any of those localities; the third was, in a
cab, to go to all the places where Jack had special canine enemies to
see whether he had gone to fight a parting fight with any of them. The
three small boys were sent on their way, the weeping maid dismissed to
mount guard over the pile of baggage, and then I told the manager to
serve us our duck and he smiled again, while the waiter allowed the
look of sympathy to die out in his face and woke to sudden activity.
Miss Dainty was going out to America to play what she called "a
thinking part," with an English company on tour there. She was to have
gone to Liverpool by a morning train, and a little crowd, male and
female, assembled to see her off, to give her the customary bouquets,
and to wish her the customary good voyage. But no Miss Dainty arrived.
In her place appeared an agitated French maid, who explained that
her mistress could not possibly go by this train, because one of her
new hats had not been sent home. The lady section of the crowd was
sympathetic, the male section gave their bouquets to the maid to take
back to Miss Dainty, and we all went our separate ways.
In the afternoon I got this telegram: "Alone in London and starving.
Going night train. Will you give me dinner?--DAINTY." I was of course
delighted to give the little lady dinner; telegraphed to her that I
would meet her at the station and give her dinner at the Midland Grand
Hotel, and sent a note to the manager of the French restaurant at the
hotel asking him to keep a table for me, and to order a small dinner
for two.
A cab with a pile of boxes on the top brought Miss Dainty with her
bouquets, and her maid, and Jack, the fighting dog, to the station.
"Are you going to take the dog?" I asked; and Miss Dainty said,
"Certainly. I am going to take him to bite the Custom-house officers
if they interfere with my sealskin cloak." Of course, such a reason as
this was unanswerable.
The maid and the baggage and the dog were left on the platform, the
former being given strict injunctions to keep a watchful eye on the two
latter, and I took Miss Dainty off to the hotel.
Through the long curving corridor, with its brightly-painted walls
and blaze of electric light, we went to the lift, and were quickly
deposited on the first floor, where the restaurant is.
As a rule one does not expect to get a good dinner at a railway hotel;
but I knew that the Midland was one of the exceptions which prove the
rule, and that I had not done wrong in asking Miss Dainty to dine with
me there. The room, a fine large saloon, has a comfortable red paper
with handsomely framed mirrors to break the monotony of its surface,
and what painting there is on pillars and cornice has something of an
Egyptian brilliancy of colour. At one end a semicircular screen of
curtains shuts off the serving-room. At the other end great doors lead
into a drawing-room. The chairs, of red velvet, have a comfortable
look. The lights on the tables are electric globes with yellow shades.
This was the dinner that the manager had ordered for us. When I saw
_petite marmite_ on the menu I groaned. I am beginning to believe that
it is a sort of fetish that restaurant managers worship:--
Natives.
Petite marmite.
Sole Portugaise.
Filet Rossini.
Pomme soufflée.
Canard sauvage à la presse.
Salade de laitue.
Pouding à la reine.
Bombe Midland.
Petits fours.
Fruits.
With the soup, which was strong and hot, Miss Dainty told me how she
had boarded out her pets for the time of her absence, and it seemed
to me that the gold-fish, the parrot, the cat, and the love-birds
had, with Miss Dainty's usual perverseness, been sent to people who
would loathe the sight of them. Jack was to go with his mistress to
protect her from all perils in an unknown land and to bite Custom-house
officers.
When the sole and its rubicund surrounding of tomatoes appeared, I
inquired whether Miss Dainty contemplated matrimony during her travels,
and was politely snubbed by being told that that was a matter in which
she would not think of moving without first asking my consent.
As Miss Dainty toyed with the truffles of the excellently-cooked
fillet, she informed me that America is a country which understands
and admires art, and I gathered that she looks forward to returning
to England as a second Bernhardt or Duse, and that the bags of dollars
which, with their hands and hearts, endless swains are sure to offer
her, are but a secondary consideration.
Then came the wild duck; and as the manager was squeezing the rich
brown fluid from the silver press the frightened maid came bustling
into the room, and we heard the awful news that Jack was lost.
By the time that Miss Dainty had sent off her little army of
boy-messengers and had ordered the maid back to her post on baggage
guard, our table was the centre of attraction to the room. The old
Anglo-Indian colonel, whose pretty daughter was sitting opposite
to him, the family party of mother and son and daughter, the young
honeymoon couple, the half a dozen old gentlemen dining in solitary
state, all were taking an interest in the hunt for Jack. "I shall not
leave London until Jack is found," said Miss Dainty, as her slice
of the duck's breast was put in front of her. "But your boat starts
to-morrow," I protested. "The boat must wait," said Miss Dainty
decisively. "I don't go without Jack."
We ate our pudding in silence. "I expect the poor dear is fighting half
a dozen dogs now," was the only remark that Miss Dainty made with the
ice.
I called for my bill: Two dinners, 12s.; one bottle 343, 15s.; two cups
of coffee, 1s.; total £1: 8s.
"I am going now," said Miss Dainty, as she drew on her gloves, "to
send Juliette and the boxes back to the flat, and then you shall drive
me round to all the police-stations in London to see if Jack is at any
of them."
As we walked down the long corridor I was thinking of the pleasant
evening I was going to spend, when there was a patter of little feet
behind us, and the next moment Miss Dainty was hugging Jack, an
unrepentant, muzzleless dog, with a great cut over one eye, and an ear
bitten through.
When the train containing Miss Dainty and the bouquets and the boxes
and the maid and the dog steamed out of the station I sighed a great
sigh, which had something of relief in it.
17_th January_.