"You haven't the hand of a servant, James,"—quietly.
He started, and knocked a fork to the floor.
"They are too clumsy," she went on maliciously.
"I am not a butler, Miss; I am a groom. I promise to do the very best I can." Wrath mingled with the shame on his face.
"A man who can do what you did this morning ought not to be afraid of a dinner-table."
"There is some difference between a dinner-table and a horse, Miss." He stooped to recover the fork while she touched her lips with her handkerchief. The situation was becoming unendurable. He knew that, for some reason, she was quietly laughing at him.
"Never put back on the table a fork or piece of silver that has fallen to the floor," she advised. "Procure a clean one."
"Yes, Miss." Why, in heaven's name, didn't she go and leave him in peace?
"And be very careful not to spill a drop of the burgundy. It is seventy-eight, and a particular favorite of my father's."
Seventy-eight! As if he hadn't had many a bottle of that superb vintage during the past ten months! The glands in his teeth opened at the memory of that taste.