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Updated: May 27, 2025
It was nearly seven o'clock when Mrs. Porter reached the house. She was a little tired from the journey, but in high good humour. She had had a thoroughly satisfactory interview with her publishers satisfactory, that is to say, to herself; the publishers had other views. "Is Mrs. Winfield in?" she asked Keggs as he admitted her.
"Well," he said, with a glance at the door to make sure that there were no witnesses to an act of which the aristocrat in him disapproved, "go on!" Keggs breathed freely. The danger-point was past. "'Aving a natural interest, your lordship," he said, "we of the Servants' 'All generally manage to become respectfully aware of whatever 'appens to be transpirin' above stairs.
"No, madam," said Keggs. "Mrs. Winfield has not yet returned." Keggs was an artist in tragic narration. He did not give away his climax; he led up to it by degrees as slow as his audience would permit. "Returned? I did not know she intended to go away. Her yacht party is next week, I understand." "Yes, madam." "Where has she gone?" "To Tuxedo, madam." "Tuxedo?" "Mrs.
You seen him that day I brought him round to say hello to the old man. He didn't have no nursery at all then, let alone one with white tiles. I've seen him come up off the studio floor looking like a coon with the dust. And Miss Ruth tickled to see him like that, too. For the love of Mike, what's come to her?" "It's all along of this Porter," said Keggs morosely. "She's done it all.
"We will now," said Keggs, herding the mob with a gesture, "proceed to the Amber Drawing-Room, containing some Gobelin Tapestries 'ighly spoken of by connoozers." The obedient mob began to drift out in his wake. "What do you say, George," asked Billie in an undertone, "if we side-step the Amber Drawing-Room? I'm wild to get into that garden. There's a man working among those roses.
There were few men, he flattered himself, who could more readily put two and two together and bring the sum to a correct answer. Keggs knew of the strange American gentleman who had taken up his abode at the cottage down by Platt's farm.
"Like Susan when she married the pleeceman." "Who was Susan?" "Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er, 'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard 'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says, 'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says."
"I have to swallow it very slowly like that," explained Miss Keggs, "because that's the way for it to do me good. It's my doctor's orders." "It seems a business," was Rosalie's comment. "Yes, it is a business," Miss Keggs agreed. Rosalie added, "How very lucky it is, Miss Keggs, that Mr. Ponders keeps your medicine." "Yes, it's certainly very lucky," Miss Keggs agreed.
The butler shook his bald head gravely. 'I shouldn't, sir. It is a 'ighly fantastic story, and I don't think he would believe it. 'Then I'll Oh, get out! Keggs bowed deferentially. 'If you wish it, sir, he said, 'I will withdraw. If I may make the suggestion, sir, I think you should commence to dress. Dinner will be served in a few minutes. Thank you, sir. He passed softly out of the room.
The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths', had on Martin Rossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in a cathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs was, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs was a Menial and an overfed Menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless.
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