The house could go on without his making the rounds daily from the cellars to the roof, overseeing even the slightest spigot.

The women who cleaned it in the mornings with their brooms were always obliging him to flee from his office.

He was not permitted to make any comment nor could he extend a gold-striped arm as when he used to scold the barefooted, bare-breasted deck-swabbers, insisting that the deck should be as clean as the saloon.

He felt himself belittled, laid to one side.

He thought of Hercules dressed as a woman and spinning wool.