ober, 1872, you are in my
service!"

As he spoke, Phileas Fogg rose from his chair, took up his hat, put it
on his head as an automaton might have done, and left the room without
another word.

Passe-partout heard the street-door shut; it was his new master who
had gone out. Shortly afterwards he heard it shut again--that was his
predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn.

Passe-partout was then left alone in the house in Saville Row.

CHAPTER II.

Passe-partout is convinced that he has attained the object of his
ambition.

"Faith," muttered Passe-partout, who for the moment felt rather in a
flutter; "faith, I have seen creatures at Madame Tussaud's quite as
lively as my new master."

Madame Tussaud's "creatures" are all of wax, and only want the power
of speech.

During the short period that Passe-partout had been in Mr. Fogg's
presence, he had carefully scrutinised his future master. He appeared
to be about forty years of age, with a fine face; a tall and well-made
man, whose figure was not too stout. He had light hair and whiskers, a
clear brow, a somewhat pale face, and splendid teeth. He appeared to
possess in a very marked degree that attribute which physiognomists
call "repose in action," a faculty appertaining to those whose motto
is "Deeds, not words." Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear and steady
eye, he was the perfect type of those cool Englishmen whom one meets
so frequently in the United Kingdom, and whom Angelica Kauffmann has
so wonderfully portrayed. Mr. Fogg gave one the idea of being
perfectly balanced, like a perfect chronometer, and as well regulated.
He was, in fact, the personification of exactness, which was evident
in the very expression of his hands and feet; for amongst men, as
amongst the lower animals, the members are expressive of certain
passions.

Phileas Fogg was one of those mathematical people who, never in a
hurry, and always ready, are economical of their movements. He never
made even one step too many; he always took the shortest cut; he never
wasted a glance, nor permitted himself a superfluous gesture. No one
had ever seen him agitated or moved by any emotion. He was the last
man in the world to hurry himself, but he always arrived in time. He
lived quite alone, and, so to speak, outside the social scale. He knew
that in life there is a great deal of friction; and as friction always
retards progress, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Jean,