Wynne Rendall possessed the pluck of the devil where his point of view or ideals were at stake, but in the performance of simple everyday affairs he was afflicted with a great shyness. He hovered fearfully before the portals of several small hotels in the Strand district before summoning up courage to enter and take a room. It seemed to him the proprietors of these places would refuse and ridicule him—that they would tax him with his youth, and query if he had ever used a razor. Yet men great and small, of important or insignificant appearance, passed in and out of the swinging doors with the smallest concern imaginable. They dropped their baggage in the hall, and conversed with the clerks about rooms as he might have helped himself to salt at the table. In all his life Wynne had never stopped at an hotel, and had no experience from which to adjust his actions. He realized, however, that to delay the ordeal indefinitely would serve no useful purpose. An hotel attracted his attention on the opposite side of the road, and squaring his shoulders he boldly approached it. His shame was boundless when he walked deliberately past the open doors and down once more to the Strand. “That’s the most cowardly thing I have ever done,” he rated himself. In Villers Street he espied an eating-house with an uncooked sirloin, embellished with parsley and tomatoes, standing on a silver salver in the window. He halted and read the various legends pasted to the inner surface of the plate glass. “A good dinner for 1s. 6d.” “Steaks and onions.” “Stewed tripe.” “Bed and breakfast, 3s.” Without waiting for his courage to ebb he walked inside. A dirty Swiss waiter pulled a chair from a small table and flicked the seat invitingly with a napkin. “I want—that is, would you be good enough to let me a room. I was recommended to come here—at least I think—” “A room—sartainly—one minute,” he called a name through an open door, and a stout lady entered. “A room for zis gentleman. You will go wiz her.” As he mounted the stairs Wynne reflected that there was nothing in it after all. It was the simplest matter. He wished he had omitted the legend about having been recommended to the place; clearly there was no occasion for anything beyond a simple expression of one’s needs. He had not thought to learn anything from a Swiss waiter in a Villers Street hotel, yet a new department of learning had been opened for him from which he might profit in the future. The room to which he was shown was very ordinary, and made little impression upon him. He threw his bag to the bed and seated himself easily beside it. The landlady lingered by the door, and he ventured a remark to her: “I suppose you let quite a number of rooms?” “It would be,” she answered, “a bad thing for us if we didn’t.” As there appeared to be nothing further to contribute to that line of inquiry, he nodded and remained silent. “You’ll want a bit of dinner, I suppose.” “Oh, yes, thank you—thanks.”