He come in one Sunday morning. 'Here's a pound o' tobacca for you!' 'e
says. 'You was a butler,' 'e says. 'Butlers!' 'e says, 'there'll be no
butlers in fifty years.' An' out 'e goes. Not quite"--he put a shaky
hand up to his head--"not quite--oh dear!"

"Some people called Hughs live in your house, I think?"

"I rents my room off o' them. A lady was a-speakin' to me yesterday
about 'em; that's not your lady, I suppose, sir?"

His eyes seemed to apostrophise Hilary's hat, which was of soft felt:
'Yes, yes--I've seen your sort a-stayin' about in the best houses.
They has you down because of your learnin'; and quite the manners of a
gentleman you've got.'

"My wife's sister, I expect."

"Oh dear! She often has a paper off o' me. A real lady--not one o'
these"--again he invited Hilary to confidence--"you know what I
mean, sir--that buys their things a' ready-made at these 'ere large
establishments. Oh, I know her well."

"The old gentleman who visited you is her father."

"Is he? Oh dear!" The old butler was silent, evidently puzzled.

Hilary's eyebrows began to execute those intricate manoeuvres which
always indicated that he was about to tax his delicacy.

"How-how does Hughs treat the little girl who lives in the next room to