Keggs

　　Keggs, the butler, always looked forward to Thursdays withpleasurable anticipation. He enjoyed the sense of authority whichit gave him to herd these poor outcasts to and fro among thesurroundings which were an every-day commonplace to himself. Alsohe liked hearing the sound of his own voice as it lectured inrolling periods on the objects of interest by the way-side. Buteven to Keggs there was a bitter mixed with the sweet. No one wasbetter aware than himself that the nobility of his manner,excellent as a means of impressing the mob, worked against him whenit came to a question of tips. Again and again had he been harrowedby the spectacle of tourists, huddled together like sheep, debatingamong themselves in nervous whispers as to whether they could offerthis personage anything so contemptible as half a crown for himselfand deciding that such an insult was out of the question. It washis endeavour, especially towards the end of the proceedings, tocultivate a manner blending a dignity fitting his position with asunny geniality which would allay the timid doubts of the touristand indicate to him that, bizarre as the idea might seem, there wasnothing to prevent him placing his poor silver in more worthyhands.
　　Possibly the only member of the castle community who was absolutelyindifferent to these public visits was Lord Marshmoreton. He madeno difference between Thursday and any other day. Precisely asusual he donned his stained corduroys and pottered about hisbeloved garden; and when, as happened on an average once a quarter,some visitor, strayed from the main herd, came upon him as heworked and mistook him for one of the gardeners, he accepted theerror without any attempt at explanation, sometimes going so far asto encourage it by adopting a rustic accent in keeping with hisappearance. This sort thing tickled the simple-minded peer.
　　George joined the procession punctually at two o'clock, just asKeggs was clearing his throat preparatory to saying, "We are now inthe main 'all, and before going any further I would like to callyour attention to Sir Peter Lely's portrait of--" It was his customto begin his Thursday lectures with this remark, but today it waspostponed; for, no sooner had George appeared, than a breezy voiceon the outskirts of the throng spoke in a tone that madecompetition impossible.
　　"For goodness' sake, George."And Billie Dore detached herself from the group, a trim vision inblue. She wore a dust-coat and a motor veil, and her eyes andcheeks were glowing from the fresh air.
　　"For goodness' sake, George, what are you doing here?""I was just going to ask you the same thing.""Oh, I motored down with a boy I know. We had a breakdown justoutside the gates. We were on our way to Brighton for lunch. Hesuggested I should pass the time seeing the sights while he fixedup the sprockets or the differential gear or whatever it was. He'scoming to pick me up when he's through. But, on the level, George,how do you get this way? You sneak out of town and leave the showflat, and nobody has a notion where you are. Why, we were thinkingof advertising for you, or going to the police or something. Forall anybody knew, you might have been sandbagged or dropped in theriver."This aspect of the matter had not occurred to George till now. Hissudden descent on Belpher had seemed to him the only natural courseto pursue. He had not realized that he would be missed, and thathis absence might have caused grave inconvenience to a large numberof people.