He had been my mother's one waiter, the only manservant she ever came in contact with, and they had met in a Glasgow hotel which she was eager to see, having heard of the monstrous things, and conceived them to resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms.
I remember how she beamed--yet tried to look as if it was quite an ordinary experience--when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face.

She knew how I was exulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp me, but I craftily drew it out of her.

No, she was very comfortable, and the house was grand beyond speech, but--but--where was he?
he had not been very hearty.

'He' was the landlord; she had expected him to receive us at the door and ask if we were in good health and how we had left the others, and then she would have asked him if his wife was well and how many children they had, after which we should all have sat down together to dinner.

Two chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a single word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when they had gone, 'They are two haughty misses,' said my mother with spirit.
But what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger black suit and short quick steps and the 'towel' over his arm.