"I say, Beatrice, are you possibly in need of a butler?" I began as offhandedly as I was able.
"Out of a place, Witter dear?" was the chuckling inquiry that came to me.
"No, I'm not, but I know of a good man," was my mendacious reply. "And I rather thought—"
"My dear Witter," said the voice over the wire, "we've a jewel of a man up here. He's English, you know. And I'm beginning to suspect he's been with royalty. Jim's always wanted to stick pins in his legs to see if he really isn't petrified."
"What's his name?"
"Just what it ought to be—-the most appropriate name of Wilkins."
"How long have you had him?"
"Oh, weeks and weeks!" Only a New York householder could understand the tone of triumph in that retort.
"And you're sure of him in every way?"
"Of course we're sure of him. He's been a Gibraltar of dependability."