In America, the land of the free, whom do we fear?  The President?  No, God bless him.  There is not a true American in the world who would not stand up as a man or a woman and go into his presence without fear.  Are we afraid of our Senators, our chief rulers?  No.  But we are afraid of our servants, of our street-car conductors.  We are afraid of sleeping-car porters, and the drivers of huge trucks.  We are afraid they will drive over us in the streets, and if we dare to assert our rights and hold them in check we are afraid of what they will say to us, in the name of liberty, and of the way they will look at us, in the name of liberty.

English servants, I have discovered, have no more respect for Americans than the old-time negro of the Southern aristocracy has for Northerners.  I once asked an old black mammy in Georgia why the negroes had so little respect for the white ladies of the North.  “Case dey don’ know how to treat black folks, honey.”  “Why don’t they?” I persisted.  “Are they not kind to you?” “Umph,” she responded (and no one who has never heard a fat old negress say “Umph” knows the eloquence of it).  “Umph.  Dat’s it.  Dey’s too kin’.  Dey don’ know how to mek us min’.”  And that is just the trouble with Americans here.  An English servant takes orders, not requests.

I had such a time to learn that.  We could not understand why we were obeyed so well at first, and presently, without any outward disrespect, our wants were simply ignored until all the English people had been attended to.

My sister had told me I was too polite, but one never believes one’s sister, so I questioned our sweet English friends, and they, with much delicacy and many apologies, and the prettiest hesitation in the world—­considering the situation—­told us the reason.

“But,” I gasped, “if I should speak to our servants in that manner they would leave.  They would not stay over night.”  Our English friends tried not to smile in a superior way, and they succeeded, only I knew the smile was there, and said, “Oh, no, our servants never leave us.  They apologize for having done it wrong.”

On the way home I plucked up courage.  “I am going to try it,” I said, firmly.  My sister laughed in derision.

“Now I could do it,” she said, complaisantly.  And so she could.  My sister never plumes herself on a quality she does not possess.

“Are you going to use the tone and everything?” I said, somewhat timidly.

“You wait and see.”

She hesitated some time, I noticed, before she rang the bell, and she looked at herself in the glass and cleared her throat.  I knew she was bracing herself.

“I’ll ring the bell if you like,” I said, politely.

She gave one look at me and then rang the bell herself with a firm hand.

“And I’ll get behind you with a poker in One hand and a pitcher of hot water in the other.  Speak when you need either.”