“An Englishman with side-whiskers. They wasn't as big and long as those in the pictures, but they were side-whiskers. I feel better. When you've been brought up to believe every Englishman wore 'em, it was kind of humiliatin' not to see one single set.” I paid my porters--I learned afterward that, like most Americans, I had given them altogether too much--and we climbed into the cab with our bags. The “boxes,” or trunks, were on the driver's seat and on the roof. “Where to, sir?” asked the driver. I hesitated. Even at this late date I had not made up my mind exactly “where to.” My decision was a hasty one. “Why--er--to--to Bancroft's Hotel,” I said. “Blithe Street, just off Piccadilly.” I think the driver was somewhat astonished. Very few of his American passengers selected Bancroft's as a stopping place, I imagine. However, his answer was prompt. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he said. The cab rolled out of the station. “I suppose,” said Hephzy, reflectively, “if you had told him or that porter man that they were everlastin' idiots they'd have thanked you just the same and called you 'sir' four times besides.” “No doubt they would.” “Yes, sir, I'm perfectly sure they would--thank you, sir. So this is London. It doesn't look such an awful lot different from Boston or New York so far.” But Bancroft's, when we reached it, was as unlike a Boston or New York hotel as anything could be. A short, quiet, eminently respectable street, leading from Piccadilly; a street fenced in, on both sides, by three-story, solid, eminently respectable houses of brick and stone. No signs, no street cars, no crowds, no glaring lights. Merely a gas lamp burning over the fanlight of a spotless white door, and the words “Bancroft's Hotel” in mosaic lettering set in a white stone slab in the pavement. The cab pulled up before the white door and Hephzy and I looked out of the window. The same thought was in both our minds. “This can't be the place,” said I. “This isn't a hotel, is it, Hosy?” asked Hephzy. The white door opened and a brisk, red-cheeked English boy in uniform hastened to the cab. Before he reached it I had seen the lettering in the pavement and knew that, in spite of appearances, we had reached our destination. “This is it, Hephzy,” I said. “Come.” The boy opened the cab door and we alighted. Then in the doorway of “Bancroft's” appeared a stout, red-faced and very dignified person, also in uniform. This person wore short “mutton-chop” whiskers and had the air of a member of the Royal Family; that is to say, the air which a member of the Royal Family might be expected to have. “Good evening, sir,” said the personage, bowing respectfully. The bow was a triumph in itself; not too low, not abject in the least, not familiar; a bow which implied much, but promised nothing; a bow which seemed to demand references, but was far from repellant or bullying. Altogether a wonderful bow. “Good evening,” said I. “This is Bancroft's Hotel, is it not?”