tter is a dinner of herbs where love is."
Certainly he was leading the humble life. Born and educated to
administer, if not to rule, here was he fetching and carrying, a hewer
of ham and a drawer of corks. He wondered if there were any other
footmen who were also Companions of the Distinguished Service Order.
That there were no other footmen who were so comfortably housed, he was
sure. And Patch was in clover. Anthony reflected that he had much to
be thankful for. A dinner of herbs was infinitely better than none at
all. He was, you observe, unconsciously converting the proverb to his
own use. Stalled oxen, with or without hatred, were not nowadays in
his line. He had quite forgotten what they were like, and cared as
little. Indeed, but for Valerie, his Ambition would have been dead.
Even now it lay very sick. High stomachs are easily upset. But a
nodding acquaintance with Hunger will make Ambition turn her face to
the wall.

The duty of George Alison at nine-thirty was to take the dogs for a
run. When he returned this evening to find Anthony in the act of
setting two bottles of beer upon the table, he lifted up his voice and
thanked Heaven that he had at least one friend.

"Thirteen perishing months," he concluded, "have I been in this house,
and this is the first time I've ever had an extra rum ration. And that
with my own flesh and blood, to say nothing of a lawful wife, running
round the Bumbles from morning till night. I admit that on two several
occasions your predecessor produced to me my master's liquor, but his
ribald reception of my inquiry whether such production was authorized
left me no alternative but to refuse to consume it."

"What's that?" said Betty, bustling into the room. "I recognized the
tone of abuse, but I couldn't hear the words."

"My love," said George, "I was but remarking that beer is thicker than
water. And now will you take my boots off before you clean them? Or
clean them first and take them off afterwards?"

Betty Alison seated herself upon the table and raised her husband's
glass to her lips.

"I looks," she said, "towards you."

When she set it down, the glass was half empty.

After a moment's silence--

"You've--you've left some," said her husband in a shaking voice.

"I know," she said. "That's because I can't drink any more. I hate
beer." She slipped off the table with a yawn. "And now I'm going to
bed. Don't let him sit up, Anthony. The car's orde