a butler."

"That was our agreement," she flashed at me.

"Certainly. And to know that I intend to fulfill it to the letter,
I have only to show this."

It had been one of McWhirter's inspirations, on learning how I had
been engaged, the small book called "The Perfect Butler." I took it
from the pocket of my flannel shirt, under my oilskins, and held it
out to her.

"I have not got very far," I said humbly. "It's not inspiring
reading. I've got the wine glasses straightened out, but it seems
a lot of fuss about nothing. Wine is wine, isn't it? What
difference, after all, does a hollow stem or green glass make--"

The rain was beating down on us. The "Perfect Butler" was weeping
tears; as its chart of choice vintages was mixed with water. Miss
Lee looked up, smiling, from the book.

"You prefer 'a jug of wine,"' she said.

"Old Omar had the right idea; only I imagine, literally, it was a
skin of wine. They didn't have jugs, did they?"

"You know the 'Rubaiyat'?" she asked slowly.

"I know the jug of wine and loaf of bread part," I admitted,
irritated at the slip. "In my home city they're using it to