I. A. R. Wylie

“ George, resplendent in a cast-off suit, was temporarily taking the place of the hotel-waiter whom he had ignominiously ejected from the Count's suite, and his manner of serving the ham and eggs was stoically self-possessed and correct. The Count glared at him out of the corners of his eye, mutely admiring. Certainly the talent for impersonating superior people ran in the family. ”

“ George looked up and put his finger vulgarly to his nose.
"You ain't mad," he said, "and you ain't in deadly earnest. It's worse than all that. When a man with your talents starts bein' honest I knows wot's wrong with 'im—'e's in love, that's wot 'e is—and that's wot you are, me amatoor sky-pilot!"
The Count's eyeglass and his jaw dropped simultaneously, but no answer occurred to him, and by the time he had begun to digest the full purport of the accusation the accuser had crept with professional stealth into the Countess' bed-room. ”

“ George agreed with a jerk of the bullet head.
"Now you're a-talkin' sense, my cough-drop," he said. "Wot concerns yours truly the joke's gettin' too stale. Carryin' round plates and brushin' me own brother's togs is a very pleasant sort of rest cure but a bit wearin'. If there was any 'opes of makin' a good 'awl I wouldn't mind hobligin' you a bit longer, but outside my dear old friend Mrs. Pagot-Chump there ain't a soul in the blessed place wot's got so much as a genuine twinkler and I'm a 'ard workin' man, I am—"
"Well, then, George, I've got a job for you." ”