When I Call Upon Lady DeWolfe, I Say To
Myself Impressively, As I Go Up The Steps:
'You are as good as a
butler, as well born and well bred as a butler, even more
intelligent than a butler.
Now, simply because he has an
unapproachable haughtiness of demeanour, which you can respectfully
admire, but can never hope to imitate, do not cower beneath the
polar light of his eye; assert yourself; be a woman; be an American
citizen!' All in vain. The moment the door opens I ask for Lady
DeWolfe in so timid a tone that I know Parker thinks me the parlour-
maid's sister who has rung the visitors' bell by mistake. If my
lady is within, I follow Parker to the drawing-room, my knees
shaking under me at the prospect of committing some solecism in his
sight. Lady DeWolfe's husband has been noble only four months, and
Parker of course knows it, and perhaps affects even greater hauteur
to divert the attention of the vulgar commoner from the newness of
the title.
Dawson, our butler at Smith's private hotel, wields the same
blighting influence on our spirits, accustomed to the soft
solicitations of the negro waiter or the comfortable indifference of
the free-born American. We never indulge in ordinary democratic or
frivolous conversation when Dawson is serving us at dinner. We
'talk up' to him so far as we are able, and before we utter any
remark we inquire mentally whether he is likely to think it good
form.
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