For the lovers were really common men, until she gave them that glance over the shoulder which, I have noticed, is the fatal gift of servants.
According to legend we once had a servant--in my childhood I could show the mark of it on my forehead, and even point her out to other boys, though she was now merely a wife with a house of her own.

But even while I boasted I doubted.

Reduced to life-size she may have been but a woman who came in to help.

I shall say no more about her, lest some one comes forward to prove that she went home at night.
Never shall I forget my first servant.

I was eight or nine, in velveteen, diamond socks ('Cross your legs when they look at you,' my mother had said, 'and put your thumb in your pocket and leave the top of your handkerchief showing'), and I had travelled by rail to visit a relative.