Joseph and I are old acquaintances. In my journeyings around Europe I frequently run across him. He and I have had some varied experiences together in our time--the first in Milan at the Hotel Imperial. A young bride and groom, friends of mine--a blue-eyed, sweet-faced young girl with a husband but one year her senior (the two with a £2,000 letter of credit, the gift of a doting father)--had wired for rooms for the night at the Imperial. It was about eight o'clock when the couple drove up in one of those Italian hacks cut low-neck--a landau really--with coachman and footman on the box, and Joseph in green gloves and a silk hat on the front seat. My personal salutations over, we all mounted the stairs, preceded by the entire staff with the proprietor at their head. Here on the first landing we were met by two flunkeys in red and a blaze of electric light which revealed five rooms. In one was spread a game supper with every variety of salad known to an Italian lunch-counter; in another--the salon--stood a mass of roses the size and shape of an oleander in full bloom; then came a huge bedroom, a bathroom and a boudoir. The groom, young as he was, knew how little was left of the letter of credit. The bride did not. Neither did Joseph. "What's all this for, Hornblend?" asked the groom, casting his eyes about in astonishment. Hornblend is the other half of Joseph's name. "For Monsieur and Madame." "What, for _one night_?" Joseph worked both shoulders and extended his red fingers--he had removed his gloves--till they looked like two bunches of carrots. "Does it not Monsieur please?" "Please! Do you think I'm a royal family?" The carrots collapsed, the shoulders stopped, and a pained expression overspread Joseph's countenance. The criticisms had touched his heart. The groom and I put our heads together--mine is gray, and I have seen many couriers in my time. His was blond and curly, and Joseph was his first experience. I beckoned to the proprietor. "Who ordered this suite of rooms and all this tomfoolery?" The man bowed and waved his hand loftily toward the groom. "How?" "By telegraph." "Let me see the despatch." One of the functionaries--the clerk--handed me the document. "Is this the only one?" "Yes." "It is signed 'Joseph Hornblend,' you see." "Yes." "Then let Hornblend pay for it. Now be good enough to show these young people to a bedroom, and send your head-waiter to me. We will all dine downstairs together in the café." Since that night in Milan Joseph always has called me "my Lord."