“Oh, I know. Very decent and all that, but I doubt if Lady Underhill would have thought a lot of it. And you’re so dashed chummy with the lower orders.”
“Don’t be a snob, Freddie.”
“I’m not a snob,” protested Freddie, wounded. “When I’m alone with Parker—for instance—I’m as chatty as dammit. But I don’t ask waiters in public restaurants how their lumbago is.”
“Have you ever had lumbago?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s a very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly as dukes. Worse, I should think, because they’re always bending and stooping and carrying things. Naturally one feels sorry for them.”
“But how do you ever find out that a waiter has got lumbago?”
“I ask him; of course.”
“Well, for goodness sake,” said Freddie, “if you feel the impulse to do that sort of thing tonight, try and restrain it. I mean to say, if you’re curious to know anything about Parker’s chilblains, for instance, don’t enquire after them while he’s handing Lady Underhill the potatoes! She wouldn’t like it.”
Jill uttered an exclamation.