'YES, sir?'Jules, the celebrated head waiter of the Grand Babylon, was bending formally towards the alert, middle-aged man who had just entered the smoking-room and dropped into a basket-chair in thecorner by the conservatory. It was 7.45 on a particularly sultry June night, and dinner was about tobe served at the Grand Babylon. Men of all sizes, ages, and nationalities, but every one alike arrayedin faultless evening dress, were dotted about the large, dim apartment. A faint odour of flowers camefrom the conservatory, and the tinkle of a fountain. The waiters, commanded by Jules, moved softlyacross the thick Oriental rugs, balancing their trays with the dexterity of jugglers, and receiving andexecuting orders with that air of profound importance of which only really first-class waiters havethe secret. The atmosphere was an atmosphere of serenity and repose, characteristic of the GrandBabylon. It seemed impossible that anything could occur to mar the peaceful, aristocratic monotonyof existence in that perfectly-managed establishment. Yet on that night was to happen the mightiestupheaval that the Grand Babylon had ever known.'Yes, sir?' repeated Jules, and this time there was a shade of august disapproval in his voice: it wasnot usual for him to have to address a customer twice.'Oh!' said the alert, middle-aged man, looking up at length. Beautifully ignorant of the identity ofthe great Jules, he allowed his grey eyes to twinkle as he caught sight of the expression on thewaiter's face. 'Bring me an Angel Kiss.''Pardon, sir?''Bring me an Angel Kiss, and be good enough to lose no time.''If it's an American drink, I fear we don't keep it, sir.' The voice of Jules fell icily distinct, andseveral men glanced round uneasily, as if to deprecate the slightest disturbance of their calm. Theappearance of the person to whom Jules was speaking, however, reassured them somewhat, for hehad all the look of that expert, the travelled Englishman, who can differentiate between one hoteland another by instinct, and who knows at once where he may make a fuss with propriety, andwhere it is advisable to behave exactly as at the club. The Grand Babylon was a hotel in whosesmoking-room one behaved as though one was at one's club.'I didn't suppose you did keep it, but you can mix it, I guess, even in this hotel.''This isn't an American hotel, sir.' The calculated insolence of the words was cleverly maskedbeneath an accent of humble submission.The alert, middle-aged man sat up straight, and gazed placidly at Jules, who was pulling hisfamous red side-whiskers.'Get a liqueur glass, ' he said, half curtly and half with good-humoured tolerance, 'pour into itequal quantities of maraschino, cream, and crême de menthe. Don't stir it; don't shake it. Bring it tome. And, I say, tell the bar-tender-''Bar-tender, sir?''Tell the bar-tender to make a note of the recipe, as I shall probably want an Angel Kiss everyevening before dinner so long as this weather lasts.'