THE PERFECT BUTLERKnowles was the perfect butler, and, since the word knows no qualification, he was only that; yet there were some who would have stretched the point and claimed that he was more than perfect, inasmuch as the very art of buttling achieved under his hand a flowering, a golden renascence it never before had known.
At the moment he was in his pantry at the back of a great Georgian house in Berkeley Square, considering the polish on the Georgian spoons. His son, young Harold, attended to the spoons, his round face pink and absorbed as he rubbed away with the leather.
Young Harold was his father’s only anxiety. The boy came from an unbroken line of butlers as ancient as the family which they served.
When the present Knowles looked at young Harold and realized everything the
