What began as innocent play has quickly escalated into a whirlwind of uncontrollable passion. To wit, my automaton, Mr. Mansy, has served in my household for one full year. In that time, he has done the tasks of ten menials, washing the dishes, washing the vehicles, dusting the staircase ballustrade, making the beds, sweeping the floor, feeding the pets, and so on and so forth. He is excellent at laundry, and comes with steam settings so that he may wash, press, and fold, all while carrying out his other duties. This is not meant to be an advertisement for Dunhman Dunham Luciole, though in spite of my current trouble, of which they of course are blameless, I should not have been happier with my new servant.
But I confess I am too happy with him. Or it. For it is an “it,” and not a creature begot of our race. And yet, were not our first thoughts of the noble Bāhira that they were being separate from ourselves and disentitled to our own wants and privileges? And in like manner, an automaton may sit and converse and share its point of view, and execute such an office in conversation as to rise above some gentlemen I have had the mischance to meet.
Therefore, should it come as any surprise that having in my employ such a mannered gentleman, who works thrice as hard as any ordinary servant, and who can recite the poetry of Shulmi upon a dewy morning, I should feel so struck to the heart by him?
