confess that I yield to the butler's claim to go to market, albeit I
am assured that he derives unjust advantages therefrom, more easily
than I reconcile myself to that other privilege of standing, with
arms folded, behind me while I breakfast, or tiffin, or dine. I can
endure the suspicion that he is growing rich while I am growing poor,
but that argus supervision over my necessary food is like a canker,
and his indefatigable attentiveness would ruin the healthiest
appetite. After removing the cover from the "beefysteak" and raising
one end of the dish that I may get at the gravy more easily, he
offers me potatoes, and I try to overcome an instinctive repugnance
to the large and mealy tuber under which he has adjusted the spoon in
order to lighten my labour. After the potatoes there are vegetables.
Then he moves the salt a little nearer me and I help myself. Next he
presses the cruet-stand on my attention, putting the spoon into the
mustard pot and taking the stopper out of the sauce bottle. I submit
in the hope that I may now be allowed to begin; but he has salad or
tomatoes or something else requiring attention. I submit once more
and then assume my knife and fork. He watches his opportunity and
insinuates a pickle bottle, holding the fork in his right hand. I
feel that it is time to make a stand, so I give him one unspeakable
look and proceed with my meal, whereupon he retreats and I breathe a
little more freely. But no; he is at my left hand again with bread.
To do him justice, he is quite willing to save me annoyance by
impaling a slice on the knife and transferring it to my plate, but I
prefer to help myself, which encourages him to return to the charge
with butter and then jam. This looks like the end, but his resources
are infinite. His eye falls on the sugar basin standing beside my
teacup, and he immediately takes it up and, coming round to my left
side, holds it to my nose. All this time sit I, like Tantalus, with
the savoriest of Domingo's "beefysteaks" before me and am not allowed