Could he really be considered a butler? Playful
spirits alluded to him as: 'Uncle Jolyon's Nonconformist'; George, the
acknowledged wag, had named him: 'Sankey.'
He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great
polished table inimitably sleek and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak--he had
always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling through his
work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what!
A slug! Fat too! And didn't care a pin about his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which
made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasn't paid to care, and why
expect it? In this world people couldn't look for affection unless they
paid for it. It might be different in the next--he didn't know--couldn't
tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things
from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always
turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness
of being carried on in his master's presence; now and then he furtively
breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather.
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