so wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts
in the minds of many members--of the family--, especially those who, like
Soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness in
such matters. Could he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits
alluded to him as: 'Uncle Jolyon's Nonconformist'; George, the
acknowledged wag, had named him: 'Sankey.'

He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great
polished table inimitably sleek and soft.

Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak--he had
always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling through his work,
and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A
slug! Fat too! And didn't care a pin about his master!

But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which
made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:

After all why should the man care? He wasn't paid to care, and why
expect it? In this world people couldn't look for affection unless they
paid for it. It might be different in the next--he didn't know--couldn't
tell! And again he shut his eyes.

Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things
from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always
turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness
of being carried on in his master's presence; now and then he furtively
breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He
appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he
carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard droop over them
protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching
his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:

After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn't much left in
him!

Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders
were 'dinner at seven.' What if his master were asleep; he would soon
have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! He had himself to
think of, for he was due at his Club at half-past eight!

In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen.
The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then,
standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the
room, he said in a solemn voice:

"Dinner is on the table, sir!"

Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, a