The door opened to reveal a rather appealing young woman, standing on the step with a small cloth bag in her hands. When she was done speaking I favoured her with a small polite smile. "Je parle un peu de français, ma'amselle." The accent, so I am told, is Parisian. I regret I've had little enough opportunity to travel and compare. "But the language of the house, unless otherwise instructed, is English."<br/><br/>I took a moment to inspect her ... yes, very nice indeed, but then I've never cared for that supermodel look. A real woman has curves, and should not have to look like a pencil to attract someone. Still, I'm not paid to woolgather. "If you'll come with me to the pantry I shall inspect your particulars. If all is in order, I will take you to meet the master and mistress of the house. I am Carstairs, the gentleman's gentleman, or butler if you prefer a simpler term. Now please gather your things and follow me."<br/><br/>Once through the door I close it behind her, and lead her into the bowels of the house. A fancifull thought, but when one has served in an actual castle, a small villa like this is something of a change. The butler's pantry is something of a misnomer too ... it is an office, sometimes an office and living quarters in one. In this case, just a small office. It takes only a minute or two to reach, but affords a brief look at the house for our prospective new member of staff.