My pride collapses. The butler has seen through me to the cowardice in my heart. From his lofty pinnacle he stoops to succor me. But I rebel.
"I'll help myself, thank you," I retort, for I am on my mettle now, and boldly prize off a towering segment of the dessert. Would I let a menial reveal to the whole table that I was afraid to help myself? Never! Why, I'd sooner—
Dizzily the creamy thing totters, keels over, and falls with a sickening flop, a mushy sound, as of the impact of a wet sponge. Juicy red berries gambol hither and thither.
For a moment the shortcake lies helplessly on its side like a jellyfish that the tide has left. But only for a moment; for a wrecking-crew, made up of the butler and his assistant, comes hurrying on the scene. With emergency plate and scraper they remove the debris, while I turn purple and clutch at my collar for air. Then, after a mortifying amount of crumb-gleaning and cream-mopping, they spread a napkin before me in the presence of my swell friends, as if to shield the cloth from further depredations. I draw back to allow them to put it there, and in so doing squash a hidden strawberry against my waistcoat. As a final humiliation, a fresh piece of shortcake is brought to me already on a plate.
If there is anything more formidable than an English butler, it is an English valet. Somebody else's valet, I mean; for I suppose that if a person had one long enough, he could get so that he wouldn't be afraid of him. But as for a perfectly strange English valet!
"Your key, please, sir," demands Hawkins upon my arrival at my friend's summer palace. He bows slightly.
"What key?" I ask uneasily.
"The key to your traveling-bag, sir."
I am just stopping overnight on my way home from a house party in the woods, and all my spare raiment is soiled and bedraggled.
"So I can unpack your things, sir," threatens the Great Mogul.