Let me describe an evening on the Domestic water-shoot. At the head of the table sits Miss Carruthers herself; thirty-seven, plump though unmarried, with a face broadening towards the base and very flabby about the cheeks and chin—bull-doggy, in a word; and the snub nose, staring at you out of its upward-tilted nostrils, the small brown eyes do not belie the comparison. And what activity! never walks, but runs about her establishment like a demoniac, never speaks but shrilly shouts, carves the roast beef with scientific fury, laughs like a giant woodpecker. She belongs to a distinguished family which would never, in its days of glory, have dreamed of allowing one of its daughters to become what Miss Carruthers calls, applying to herself the most humiliating of titles and laughing as she does so, to emphasise the picturesque contrast between what she is by birth and what circumstance has reduced her to becoming, “a common lodging-house keeper.” She is a firm believer in her class and to her more distinguished guests deplores the necessity under which she labours to admit into her establishment persons not really, really.... She is careful not to mix people of different sorts together. Her most genteel guests sit the closest to her at table; it is implied that, in the neighbourhood of Miss Carruthers, they will feel at home. For years I have had the honour of sitting at her left hand; for if less prosperous than Mrs. Cloudesley Shove, the broker’s widow (who sits in glory on the right), I have at least attended in my youth an ancient seat of learning. The gong reverberates; punctually I hurry down to the dining-room. With fury and precision, like a conductor immersed in a Wagner overture, Miss Carruthers is carving the beef. “Evening, Mr. Chelifer,” she loudly calls, without interrupting her labours. “What news have you brought back with you from the city to-day?” Affably I smile, professionally I rub the hands. “Well, I don’t know that I can think of any.” “Evening, Mrs. Fox. Evening, Mr. Fox.” The two old people take their places near the further end of the table. They are not quite, quite.... “Evening, Miss Monad.” Miss Monad does responsible secretarial work and sits next to the Foxes. “Evening, Mr. Quinn. Evening, Miss Webber. Evening, Mrs. Crotch.” But the tone in which she responds to Mr. Dutt’s courteous greeting is much less affable. Mr. Dutt is an Indian—a black man, Miss Carruthers calls him. Her “Evening, Mr. Dutt” shows that she knows her place and hopes that the man of the inferior race knows his. The servant comes in with a steaming dish of greens. _Crambe repetita_—inspiring perfume! Mentally I burst into song.