THROUGH A GLASS LIGHTLY
a dishonesty in our butler. There are men who keep cellar books, ear-marking every bottle of every bin, so that at a glance they can see how much remains of that ’75 Lafitte, and how many bottles of the ’74 Pommery are still for self and friends; but we would put our butler on his honour, and inculcate him with the pride of cellarage, and the artistry of drinking. It may be that we err on the side of credulity, but while we remain in ignorance, we live in bliss. We have endured much at the hands of inexperienced waiters, for the name of butler predicates perfection; we have sat gloomily at dinner looking alternately at the empty glass, and the sable statue who alone could fill, standing in mute, passionless idiocy at the back of his master’s chair, and we have debased our-
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