Perhaps the spectacle of the long, adorned
table, the scent of flowers, the sound of music, the dark eyes of
Mr. Edward Brown who was seated at her right hand.
(Dear old faithful Ben!--to think of how his devotion to tippling
Tim had brought Edward Brown into her life!)
She felt a stranger to herself. Something in her soared
intoxicatingly. The sound of her own gay chatter came to her from
afar--as from a stranger. Mr. Brown kept on looking at her.
The butler appeared, bringing the oyster cocktails (a genteel
delicacy possible in an inland midsummer thanks to the canning
industry), and proceeded to serve them with empressement.
The butler was really the climactic triumph of the event. And he was
Missy's own inspiration. She had been racking her brains for some
way to eliminate the undistinguished Marguerite, to conjure through
the very strength of her desire some approach to a proper servitor.
If only they had ONE of those estimable beings in Cherry vale! A
butler, preferably elderly, and "steeped in respectability" up to
his port-wine nose; one who would hover around the table, adjusting
this dish affectionately and straightening that, and who, whenever
he left the room, left it with a velvet step and an almost inaudible
sigh of satisfaction .
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