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