But Bellew, knowing nothing of that latter-day hysteria which wears the disguise, and calls itself "Temperament," and being only a rather ordinary young man, did nothing of the kind. Having lighted his pipe, and read the letter through again, he rang instead for Baxter, his valet.
Baxter was small, and slight, and dapper as to person, clean-shaven, alert of eye, and soft of movement,—in a word, Baxter was the cream of gentlemen's gentlemen, and the very acme of what a valet should be, from the very precise parting of his glossy hair, to the trim toes of his glossy boots. Baxter as has been said, was his valet, and had been his father's valet, before him, and as to age, might have been thirty, or forty, or fifty, as he stood there beside the table, with one eye-brow raised a trifle higher than the other, waiting for Bellew to speak.
"Baxter."
"Sir?"
"Take a seat."
"Thank you sir." And Baxter sat down, not too near his master, nor too far off, but exactly at the right, and proper distance.
"Baxter, I wish to consult with you."
"As between Master and Servant, sir?"
"As between man and man, Baxter."
"Very good, Mr. George, sir!"