resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms. I remember how
she beamed - yet tried to look as if it was quite an ordinary
experience - when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she
said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face. She knew how
I was exulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp
me, but I craftily drew it out of her. No, she was very
comfortable, and the house was grand beyond speech, but - but -
where was he? he had not been very hearty. 'He' was the landlord;
she had expected him to receive us at the door and ask if we were
in good health and how we had left the others, and then she would
have asked him if his wife was well and how many children they had,
after which we should all have sat down together to dinner. Two
chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a single
word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when
they had gone, 'They are two haughty misses,' said my mother with
spirit. But what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger
black suit and short quick steps and the 'towel' over his arm.
Without so much as a 'Welcome to Glasgow!' he showed us to our
seats, not the smallest acknowledgment of our kindness in giving
such munificent orders did we draw from him, he hovered around the
table as if it would be unsafe to leave us with his knives and
forks (he should have seen her knives and forks), when we spoke to
each other he affected not to hear, we might laugh but this uppish
fellow would not join in. We retired, crushed, and he had the
final impudence to open the door for us. But though this hurt my
mother at the time, the humour of our experiences filled her on
reflection, and in her own house she would describe them with
unction, sometimes to those who had been in many hotels, often to
others who had been in none, and whoever were her listeners she
made them laugh, though not always at the same thing.