There were a lot of men’s clubs in London afew years ago. Men went there and read their newspapers quietly, or drank orhad meals with their friends.
All of these men’s clubs had a lot of verygood servants. At every club one of the servants was a doorman. Mr Grace wasthe doorman of one of these clubs. He was fifty-five years old, and he had greyhair and a big grey moustache. The telephone rang in his office at six o’clockin the evening, and a woman spoke to him. She said, “Are you the doorman of theGeorge Club?”
“Yes, I am,” Mr Grace answered.
“Please give my husband a message,” thewoman said.
“Your husband isn’t at the club thisevening,” Mr Grace answered.
“But I haven’t told you his name!” thewoman said angrily.
“That isn’t necessary,” Mr Grey answered.“No husband is ever at the club.”