Critchett hands tea and coffee and chocolate, in a silver service, with cakes, fruits, and biscuits.
“And all these pretty things, Mr. Bertram?” asks Lady Jane. “Surely they are the flesh-pots of Egypt, and ought not to be here?”
“They ought not,” replies Bertram, “nor Critchett either.”
“Oh, he is such a delightful servant; so noiseless, so prévenant, and so devoted to you; you would never find his equal if you sent him away.”
“No; but for one man to serve another is contrary to all principles of self-respect on either side.”
“My dear Wilfrid,” cries Lady Southwold, “how I wish you were small enough to be whipped! What a deal of good it would do you!”
Bertram smiles faintly.
“Flagellation was, I believe, most admirable discipline; but we have grown too effete for it. Our bodies are as tender as our hearts are hard.”
“I have always thought,” said Cicely Seymour, in a very soft voice, “that if everybody could be born with ten thousand a year, nobody would ever do anything wrong.”
Bertram looks at her approvingly. “You are on the right road, Miss Seymour. But as we cannot generalise property, we must generalise poverty. The result will be equally good.”