The omnibus, then, stopped at the hotel porch and in front of the manager, who stood with a bunch of telegrams in his hand. Behind him smiled the clerk, and on his right bowed the Lord High Porter in gold lace and buttons: everything is done in the best and most approved style at the Baur au Lac in Zurich. "Did you telegraph, sir? No? Well--let--me-see-- Ah, yes! I remember--you were here last year. Number 13, Fritz, on the second floor" (this to a boy), and the manager passed on and saluted the other passengers--two duchesses in silk dusters, a count in a straw hat with a green ribbon, and two Italian nobleman in low collars and mustaches. At least, they must have been noblemen or something better, judging from the profundity of the manager's bow and the alacrity with which Fritz, the boy, let go my bag and picked up three of theirs. Another personage now stepped up--a little man with the eyes of a fox--a courier whom I had not seen for years. "Why, Joseph! where did you drop from?" I asked. "From the Engadine, my Lord, and I hope your Lordship is most well." "Pretty well, Joseph. What are you doing here?" "It is an Englishman--a lame Englishman--a matter of two weeks only. And you, my Lord?" "Just from Venice, on my way back to Paris," I answered. By this time the manager was gazing with his eyes twice their size, and the small boy was standing in the middle of a heap of bags, wondering which one of the nobilities (including myself) he would serve first. Joseph had now divested me of my umbrella and sketch-trap and was facing the manager. "Did I hear that thirteen was the number of his Lordship's room?" he inquired of that gentleman. "I will myself go. Give me the bag" (this to the boy). "This way, my Lord." And he led the way through the cool hall filled with flowering plants and up a staircase panelled with mirrors. I followed contentedly behind.