The Grand Babylon Hotel | Page 5

had but three hundred and fifty
rooms, whereas there are two hotels within a quarter of a mile with six hundred and four
hundred rooms respectively. On the other hand, the Grand Babylon was the only hotel in
London with a genuine separate entrance for Royal visitors constantly in use. The Grand

Babylon counted that day wasted on which it did not entertain, at the lowest, a German
prince or the Maharajah of some Indian State. When Felix Babylon - after whom, and not
with any reference to London's nickname, the hotel was christened - when Felix Babylon
founded the hotel in 1869 he had set himself to cater for Royalty, and that was the secret
of his triumphant eminence.
The son of a rich Swiss hotel proprietor and financier, he had contrived to established a
connection with the officials of several European Courts, and he had not spared money in
that respect. Sundry kings and not a few princesses called him Felix , and spoke
familiarly of the hotel as 'Felix 's'; and Felix had found that this was very good for trade.
The Grand Babylon was managed accordingly. The 'note' of its policy was discretion,
always discretion, and quietude, simplicity, remoteness. The place was like a palace
incognito. There was no gold sign over the roof, not even an explanatory word at the
entrance. You walked down a small side street off the Strand, you saw a plain brown
building in front of you, with two mahogany swing doors, and an official behind each;
the doors opened noiselessly; you entered; you were in Felix 's. If you meant to be a guest,
you, or your courier, gave your card to Miss Spencer. Upon no consideration did you ask
for the tariff. It was not good form to mention prices at the Grand Babylon; the prices
were enormous, but you never mentioned them. At the conclusion of your stay a bill was
presented, brief and void of dry details, and you paid it without a word. You met with. a
stately civility, that was all. No one had originally asked you to come; no one expressed
the hope that you would come again. The Grand Babylon was far above such manoeuvres;
it defied competition by ignoring it; and consequently was nearly always full during the
season.
If there was one thing more than another that annoyed the Grand Babylon - put its back
up, so to speak - it was to be compared with, or to be mistaken for, an American hotel.
The Grand Babylon was resolutely opposed to American methods of eating, drinking, and
lodging - but especially American methods of drinking. The resentment of Jules, on being
requested to supply Mr Theodore Racksole with an Angel Kiss, will therefore be
appreciated.
'Anybody with Mr Theodore Racksole?' asked Jules, continuing his conversation with
Miss Spencer. He put a scornful stress on every syllable of the guest's name.
'Miss Racksole - she's in No. 111.'
Jules paused, and stroked his left whisker as it lay on his gleaming white collar.
'She's where?' he queried, with a peculiar emphasis.
'No. 111. I couldn't help it. There was no other room with a bathroom and dressing-room
on that floor.' Miss Spencer's voice had an appealing tone of excuse.
'Why didn't you tell Mr Theodore Racksole and Miss Racksole that we were unable to
accommodate them?'
'Because Babs was within hearing.'

Only three people in the wide world ever dreamt of applying to Mr Felix Babylon the
playful but mean abbreviation - Babs: those three were Jules, Miss Spencer, and Rocco.
Jules had invented it. No one but he would have had either the wit or the audacity to do
so.
'You'd better see that Miss Racksole changes her room to-night,' Jules said after another
pause. 'Leave it to me: I'll fix it. Au revoir! It's three minutes to eight. I shall take charge
of the dining-room myself to-night.'
And Jules departed, rubbing his fine white hands slowly and meditatively. It was a trick
of his, to rub his hands with a strange, roundabout motion, and the action denoted that
some unusual excitement was in the air.
At eight o'clock precisely dinner was served in the immense salle manger, that chaste yet
splendid apartment of white and gold. At a small table near one of the windows a young
lady sat alone. Her frocks said Paris, but her face unmistakably said New York. It was a
self-possessed and bewitching face, the face of a woman thoroughly accustomed to doing
exactly what she liked, when she liked, how she liked: the face of a woman who had
taught hundreds of gilded young men the true art of fetching and carrying, and who, by
twenty years or so of parental spoiling, had come to regard herself