"But who in the name of goodness is Banks?" I inquired irritably. The
petulant tone was merely an artifice. I realised that if I were meek, he
would lose more time in abusing my apparent imbecility. I know that the
one way to beat a bully is by bullying, but I hate even the pretence of
that method.

Jervaise grunted as if the endeavour to lift the weight of my ignorance
required an almost intolerable physical effort.

"Why, this fellow--our chauffeur," he said in a voice so threateningly
restrained that he seemed on the point of bursting.

There was no help for it; I had to take the upper hand.

"Well, my good idiot," I said, "you can't expect me to know these things
by intuition. I've never heard of the confounded fellow before. Haven't
even seen him, now. Nor his sister--Anne Banks, Frienderbrenda's."

Jervaise was calmed by this outburst. This was the sort of attitude he
could understand and appreciate.

"All right, keep your shirt on," he replied quite amicably.

"If you'd condescend to explain," I returned as huffily as I could.

"You see, this chap, Banks," he began, "isn't quite the ordinary chauffeur
Johnnie. He's the son of one of our farmers. Decent enough old fellow,
too, in his way--the father, I mean. Family's been tenants of the Home
Farm for centuries. And this chap, Banks, the son, has knocked about the