Now this book, naturally enough, begins with Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers; begins at that moment when he coughed and pulled down his waistcoat for the first time.  And yet (since action is as necessary to the success of a book as to life itself) it should perhaps begin more properly at the psychological moment when Mr. Brimberly coughed and pulled down the garment aforesaid for the third time, since it is then that the real action of this story commences.

Be that as it may, it is beyond all question that nowhere in this wide world could there possibly be found just such another pair of whiskers as those which adorned the plump cheeks of Mr. Brimberly; without them he might have been only an ordinary man, but, possessing them, he was the very incarnation of all that a butler could possibly be.

And what whiskers these were!  So soft, so fleecy, so purely white, that at times they almost seemed like the wings of cherubim, striving to soar away and bear Mr. Brimberly into a higher and purer sphere.  Again, what Protean whiskers were these, whose fleecy pomposity could overawe the most superior young footmen and reduce page-boys, tradesmen, and the lower orders generally, to a state of perspiring humility; to his equals how calmly aloof, how blandly dignified; and to those a misguided fate had set above him, how demurely deferential, how obligingly obsequious!  Indeed, Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers were all things to all men, and therein lay their potency.

Mr. Brimberly then, pompous, affable, and most sedate, having motioned his visitor into his master’s favourite chair, set down the tray of decanters and glasses upon the piano, coughed, and pulled down his waistcoat; and Mr. Brimberly did it all with that air of portentous dignity and leisurely solemnity which, together with his whiskers, made him the personality he was.

“And you’re still valeting for Barberton, are you, Mr. Stevens?” he blandly enquired.

“I’ve been with his lordship six months, now,” nodded Mr. Stevens.

“Ah!” said Mr. Brimberly, opening a certain carved cabinet and reaching thence a box of his master’s choicest Havanas, “six months, indeed!  And ’ow is Barberton?  I hacted in the capacity of his confidential valet a good many years ago, as I told you, and we always got on very well together, very well, indeed. ’ow is Barberton?”

“Oh, ’e ’d be right enough if it warn’t for ’is gout which gets ’im in the big toe now and then, and ’is duns and creditors and sich-like low fellers, as gets ’im everywhere and constant!  ’E’ll never be quite ’imself until ’e marries money—­and plenty of it!”

“A American hair-ess!” nodded Mr. Brimberly.  “Pre-cisely!  I very nearly married ’im to a rich widder ten years ago.  ’E’d ’ave been settled for life if ’e ’d took my advice!  But Barberton was always inclined to be a little ’eadstrong.  The widder in question ’appened to be a trifle par-say, I’ll admit, also it was ’inted that one of ’er—­lower limbs was cork.  But then, ’er money, sir—­’er jools!” Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands and shook his head until his whiskers quivered in a very ecstasy.