The ex-King of Eritivaria having pointed out to me those unparalleled heirlooms to which I have alluded, and many more besides, hospitably asked me if there was anything else that I would care to see, he meant the pieces of plate that they had in the cupboards, the curiously graven swords of other princes, historic jewels, legendary seals, but I who had had a glimpse of their marvelous staircase, whose balustrade I believed to be solid gold and wondering why in such a stately house they chose to dine in the basement, mentioned the word “upstairs.” A profound hush came down on the whole assembly, the hush that might greet levity in a cathedral.
“Upstairs!” he gasped, “We cannot go upstairs.”
I perceived that what I had said was an ill-chosen thing. I tried to excuse myself but knew not how.
“Of course,” I muttered, “members may not take guests upstairs.”
“Members!” he said to me, “We are not the members!”
There was such reproof in his voice that I said no more, I looked at him questioningly, perhaps my lips moved, I may have said, “What are you?” A great surprise had come on me at their attitude.
“We are the waiters,” he said.
That I could not have known, here at least was honest ignorance that I had no need to be ashamed of, the very opulence of their table denied it.
“Then who are the members?” I asked.
Such a hush fell at that question, such a hush of genuine awe, that all of a sudden a wild thought entered my head, a thought strange and fantastic and terrible. I gripped my host by the wrist and hushed my voice.
“Are they too exiles?” I asked.
Twice as he looked in my face he gravely nodded his head.
I left that club very swiftly indeed, never to see it again, scarcely pausing to say farewell to those menial kings, and as I left the door a great window opened far up at the top of the house and a flash of lightning streamed from it and killed a dog.