I would look up and see him standing so smooth and benevolent behind Mrs Monnerie's chair that he reminded me of my bishop, and I doubt if ever she crisply uttered his delightful name but it recalled the pleasant chime of a poem which my mother had taught me: The Nymph Complaining of the Death of her Fawn. I should have liked to have a long talk with Mr Marvell—any time of the day when he wasn't a butler, I mean—but the opportunity never came.
One day, when he had left us to ourselves, I ventured to quote a stanza of this poem to Mrs Monnerie:—
"With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they—
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white—shall I say?—than my hand,
Nay, any lady's in the land...."