Ashe’s first impression of Beach, the butler, was one of tension.  Other people, confronted for the first time with Beach, had felt the same.  He had that strained air of being on the very point of bursting that one sees in bullfrogs and toy balloons.  Nervous and imaginative men, meeting Beach, braced themselves involuntarily, stiffening their muscles for the explosion.  Those who had the pleasure of more intimate acquaintance with him soon passed this stage, just as people whose homes are on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius become immune to fear of eruptions.

As far back as they could remember Beach had always looked as though an apoplectic fit were a matter of minutes; but he never had apoplexy and in time they came to ignore the possibility of it.  Ashe, however, approaching him with a fresh eye, had the feeling that this strain could not possibly continue and that within a very short space of time the worst must happen.  The prospect of this did much to rouse him from the coma into which he had been frozen by the rigors of the journey.

Butlers as a class seem to grow less and less like anything human in proportion to the magnificence of their surroundings.  There is a type of butler employed in the comparatively modest homes of small country gentlemen who is practically a man and a brother; who hobnobs with the local tradesmen, sings a good comic song at the village inn, and in times of crisis will even turn to and work the pump when the water supply suddenly fails.

The greater the house the more does the butler diverge from this type.  Blandings Castle was one of the more important of England’s show places, and Beach accordingly had acquired a dignified inertia that almost qualified him for inclusion in the vegetable kingdom.  He moved—­when he moved at all—­slowly.  He distilled speech with the air of one measuring out drops of some precious drug.  His heavy-lidded eyes had the fixed expression of a statue’s.

With an almost imperceptible wave of a fat white hand, he conveyed to Ashe that he desired him to sit down.  With a stately movement of his other hand, he picked up a kettle, which simmered on the hob.  With an inclination of his head, he called Ashe’s attention to a decanter on the table.

In another moment Ashe was sipping a whisky toddy, with the feeling that he had been privileged to assist at some mystic rite.  Mr. Beach, posting himself before the fire and placing his hands behind his back, permitted speech to drip from him.

“I have not the advantage of your name, Mr.——­”

Ashe introduced himself.  Beach acknowledged the information with a half bow.

“You must have had a cold ride, Mr. Marson.  The wind is in the east.”

Ashe said yes; the ride had been cold.

“When the wind is in the east,” continued Mr. Beach, letting each syllable escape with apparent reluctance, “I suffer from my feet.”

“I beg your pardon?”