"I heard _he_ stops at Wilkins's," said Mr. Garvin. "Wilkins's your grandmother!" Brindley essayed to crush Mr. Garvin. "I don't say he _does_ stop at Wilkins's," said Mr. Garvin, an individual not easy to crush; "I only say I heard as he did." "They wouldn't have him!" Brindley insisted firmly. Mr. Quorrall at any rate seemed tacitly to agree with Brindley. The august name of Wilkins's was in its essence so exclusive that vast numbers of fairly canny provincials had never heard of it. Ask ten well-informed provincials which is the first hotel in London and nine of them would certainly reply, the Grand Babylon. Not that even wealthy provincials from the industrial districts are in the habit of staying at the Grand Babylon! No! Edward Henry, for example, had never stayed at the Grand Babylon, no more than he had ever bought a first-class ticket on a railroad. The idea of doing so had scarcely occurred to him. There are certain ways of extravagant smartness which are not considered to be good form among solid wealthy provincials. Why travel first-class (they argue) when second is just as good and no one can tell the difference once you get out of the train? Why ape the tricks of another stratum of society? They like to read about the dinner-parties and supper-parties at the Grand Babylon; but they are not emulous and they do not imitate. At their most adventurous they would lunch or dine in the neutral region of the grill-room at the Grand Babylon. As for Wilkins's, in Devonshire Square, which is infinitely better known among princes than in the Five Towns, and whose name is affectionately pronounced with a "V" by half the monarchs of Europe, few industrial provincials had ever seen it. The class which is the backbone of England left it serenely alone to royalty and the aristocratic parasites of royalty. "I don't see why they shouldn't have him," said Edward Henry, as he lifted a challenging nose in the air. "Perhaps you don't, Alderman!" said Brindley. "_I_ wouldn't mind going to Wilkins's," Edward Henry persisted. "I'd like to see you," said Brindley, with curt scorn. "Well," said Edward Henry, "I'll bet you a fiver I do." Had he not won eighteenpence halfpenny, and was he not securely at peace with his wife? "I don't bet fivers," said the cautious Brindley. "But I'll bet you half-a-crown." "Done!" said Edward Henry. "When will you go?" "Either to-day or to-morrow. I must go to the Majestic first, because I've ordered a room and so on." "Ha!" hurtled Brindley, as if to insinuate that Edward Henry was seeking to escape from the consequences of his boast. And yet he ought to have known Edward Henry. He did know Edward Henry. And he hoped to lose his half-crown. On his face and on the faces of the other two was the cheerful admission that tales of the doings of Alderman Machin, the great local card, at Wilkins's--if he succeeded in getting in--would be cheap at half-a-crown. Porters cried out "Euston!" II