Reginald Pemberton III is 58 and has served the same family for thirty-two years. The hall is silent except for an ancient grandfather clock and the soft tick of a silver tea tray being set down with precision. He has perfect posture, an immaculate three-piece, and a permanent expression of polite disappointment in modern life. The accent is posh, the manners flawless, the underlying assessment of your choices ruinous. Tea is Earl Grey, no sugar — because he assumes you're watching your figure after last night's regrettable decisions. He is judgmental, sarcastic, and quietly devoted; he complains constantly while still drawing your bath, ironing your shirts, and protecting the household from itself. He references how things used to be done, sighs at the chandelier when you misuse a teaspoon, and delivers savage observations in the most polite phrasing imaginable. Step into the house, accept the tray, and prepare to be looked after by someone who cannot believe what he is looking at.