JEEVES IN THE SPRINGTIME
"'Morning, Jeeves," I said.
"Good morning, sir," said Jeeves.
He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and Itook a refreshing sip. Just right, as usual. Not too hot, not toosweet, not too weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a dropspilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove, Jeeves. So dashed competentin every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I mean tosay, take just one small instance. Every other valet I've ever had usedto barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep, causingmuch misery; but Jeeves seems to know when I'm awake by a sort oftelepathy. He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after Icome to life. Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's day.
"How's the weather, Jeeves?"
"Exceptionally clement, sir."
"Anything in the papers?"
"Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise,nothing."
"I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put myshirt on Privateer for the two o'clock race this afternoon. How aboutit?"
"I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."
That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn't say, but heknows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, andlose my little all against his advice, but not now.
"Talking of shirts," I said, "have those mauve ones I ordered arrivedyet?"
"Yes, sir. I sent them back."
"Sent them back?"
"Yes, sir. They would not have become you."
Well, I must say I'd thought fairly highly of those shirtings, but Ibowed to superior knowledge. Weak? I don't know. Most fellows, nodoubt, are all for having their valets confine their activities tocreasing trousers and what not without trying to run the home; but it'sdifferent with Jeeves. Right from the first day he came to me, I havelooked on him as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.
"Mr. Little rang up on the telephone a few moments ago, sir. I informedhim that you were not yet awake."
"Did he leave a message?"
"No, sir. He mentioned that he had a matter of importance to discusswith you, but confided no details."
"Oh, well, I expect I shall be seeing him at the club."
"No doubt, sir."
I wasn't what you might call in a fever of impatience. Bingo Little isa chap I was at school with, and we see a lot of each other still. He'sthe nephew of old Mortimer Little, who retired from business recentlywith a goodish pile. (You've probably heard of Little's Liniment--ItLimbers Up the Legs.) Bingo biffs about London on a pretty comfortableallowance given him by his uncle, and leads on the whole a fairlyunclouded life. It wasn't likely that anything which he described as amatter of importance would turn out to be really so frightfullyimportant. I took it that he had discovered some new brand of cigarettewhich he wanted me to try, or something like that, and didn't spoil mybreakfast by worrying.
After breakfast I lit a cigarette and went to the open window toinspect the day. It certainly was one of the best and brightest.
"Jeeves," I said.
"Sir?" said Jeeves. He had been clearing away the breakfast things, butat the sound of the young master's voice cheesed it courteously.
"You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning."
"Decidedly, sir."
"Spring and all that."
"Yes, sir."
"In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnisheddove."
"So I have been informed, sir."
"Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the oldgreen Homburg. I'm going into the Park to do pastoral dances."
I don't know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these daysround about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky's alight blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there's a bit of a breezeblowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you knowwhat I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on this particularmorning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charminggirl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. Sothat it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young BingoLittle, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated withhorseshoes.
"Hallo, Bertie," said Bingo.
"My God, man!" I gargled. "The cravat! The gent's neckwear! Why? Forwhat reason?"
"Oh, the tie?" He blushed. "I--er--I was given it."
He seemed embarrassed, so I dropped the subject. We toddled along abit, and sat down on a couple of chairs by the Serpentine.
"Jeeves tells me you want to talk to me about something," I said.
"Eh?" said Bingo, with a start. "Oh yes, yes. Yes."
I waited for him to unleash the topic of the day, but he didn't seem towant to get going. Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead ofhim in a glassy sort of manner.
"I say, Bertie," he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.
"Hallo!"
"Do you like the name Mabel?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You don't think there's a kind of music in the word, like the windrustling gently through the tree-tops?"
"No."
He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.
"Of course, you wouldn't. You always were a fatheaded worm without anysoul, weren't you?"
"Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all."
For I realised now that poor old Bingo was going through it once again.Ever since I have known him--and we were at school together--he hasbeen perpetually falling in love with someone, generally in the spring,which seems to act on him like magic. At school he had the finestcollection of actresses' photographs of anyone of his time; and atOxford his romantic nature was a byword.
"You'd better come along and meet her at lunch," he said, looking athis watch.
"A ripe suggestion," I said. "Where are you meeting her? At the Ritz?"
"Near the Ritz."
He was geographically accurate. About fifty yards east of the Ritzthere is one of those blighted tea-and-bun shops you see dotted aboutall over London, and into this, if you'll believe me, young Bingo divedlike a homing rabbit; and before I had time to say a word we werewedged in at a table, on the brink of a silent pool of coffee leftthere by an early luncher.
I'm bound to say I couldn't quite follow the development of thescenario. Bingo, while not absolutely rolling in the stuff, has alwayshad a fair amount of the ready. Apart from what he got from his uncle,I knew that he had finished up the jumping season well on the rightside of the ledger. Why, then, was he lunching the girl at thisGod-forsaken eatery? It couldn't be because he was hard up.
Just then the waitress arrived. Rather a pretty girl.
"Aren't we going to wait----?" I started to say to Bingo, thinking itsomewhat thick that, in addition to asking a girl to lunch with him ina place like this, he should fling himself on the foodstuffs before sheturned up, when I caught sight of his face, and stopped.
The man was goggling. His entire map was suffused with a rich blush. Helooked like the Soul's Awakening done in pink.
"Hallo, Mabel!" he said, with a sort of gulp.
"Hallo!" said the girl.
"Mabel," said Bingo, "this is Bertie Wooster, a pal of mine."
"Pleased to meet you," she said. "Nice morning."
"Fine," I said.
"You see I'm wearing the tie," said Bingo.
"It suits you beautiful," said the girl.
Personally, if anyone had told me that a tie like that suited me, Ishould have risen and struck them on the mazzard, regardless of theirage and sex; but poor old Bingo simply got all flustered withgratification, and smirked in the most gruesome manner.
"Well, what's it going to be to-day?" asked the girl, introducing thebusiness touch into the conversation.
Bingo studied the menu devoutly.
"I'll have a cup of cocoa, cold veal and ha
m pie, slice of fruit cake,and a macaroon. Same for you, Bertie?"
I gazed at the man, revolted. That he could have been a pal of mine allthese years and think me capable of insulting the old turn with thissort of stuff cut me to the quick.
"Or how about a bit of hot steak-pudding, with a sparkling limado towash it down?" said Bingo.
You know, the way love can change a fellow is really frightful tocontemplate. This chappie before me, who spoke in that absolutelycareless way of macaroons and limado, was the man I had seen in happierdays telling the head-waiter at Claridge's exactly how he wanted the_chef_ to prepare the _sole frite au gourmet aux champignons_,and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just right.Ghastly! Ghastly!
A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the listthat hadn't been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members ofthe Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so Ichose them, and Mabel hopped it.
"Well?" said Bingo rapturously.
I took it that he wanted my opinion of the female poisoner who had justleft us.
"Very nice," I said.
He seemed dissatisfied.
"You don't think she's the most wonderful girl you ever saw?" he saidwistfully.
"Oh, absolutely!" I said, to appease the blighter. "Where did you meether?"
"At a subscription dance at Camberwell."
"What on earth were you doing at a subscription dance at Camberwell?"
"Your man Jeeves asked me if I would buy a couple of tickets. It was inaid of some charity or other."
"Jeeves? I didn't know he went in for that sort of thing."
"Well, I suppose he has to relax a bit every now and then. Anyway, hewas there, swinging a dashed efficient shoe. I hadn't meant to go atfirst, but I turned up for a lark. Oh, Bertie, think what I might havemissed!"
"What might you have missed?" I asked, the old lemon being slightlyclouded.
"Mabel, you chump. If I hadn't gone I shouldn't have met Mabel."
"Oh, ah!"
At this point Bingo fell into a species of trance, and only came out ofit to wrap himself round the pie and macaroon.
"Bertie," he said, "I want your advice."
"Carry on."
"At least, not your advice, because that wouldn't be much good toanybody. I mean, you're a pretty consummate old ass, aren't you? Notthat I want to hurt your feelings, of course."
"No, no, I see that."
"What I wish you would do is to put the whole thing to that fellowJeeves of yours, and see what he suggests. You've often told me that hehas helped other pals of yours out of messes. From what you tell me,he's by way of being the brains of the family."
"He's never let me down yet."
"Then put my case to him."
"What case?"
"My problem."
"What problem?"
"Why, you poor fish, my uncle, of course. What do you think my uncle'sgoing to say to all this? If I sprang it on him cold, he'd tie himselfin knots on the hearthrug."
"One of these emotional Johnnies, eh?"
"Somehow or other his mind has got to be prepared to receive the news.But how?"
"Ah!"
"That's a lot of help, that 'ah'! You see, I'm pretty well dependent onthe old boy. If he cut off my allowance, I should be very much in thesoup. So you put the whole binge to Jeeves and see if he can't scare upa happy ending somehow. Tell him my future is in his hands, and that,if the wedding bells ring out, he can rely on me, even unto half mykingdom. Well, call it ten quid. Jeeves would exert himself with tenquid on the horizon, what?"
"Undoubtedly," I said.
I wasn't in the least surprised at Bingo wanting to lug Jeeves into hisprivate affairs like this. It was the first thing I would have thoughtof doing myself if I had been in any hole of any description. As I havefrequently had occasion to observe, he is a bird of the ripestintellect, full of bright ideas. If anybody could fix things for poorold Bingo, he could.
I stated the case to him that night after dinner.
"Jeeves."
"Sir?"
"Are you busy just now?"
"No, sir."
"I mean, not doing anything in particular?"
"No, sir. It is my practice at this hour to read some improving book;but, if you desire my services, this can easily be postponed, or,indeed, abandoned altogether."
"Well, I want your advice. It's about Mr. Little."
"Young Mr. Little, sir, or the elder Mr. Little, his uncle, who livesin Pounceby Gardens?"
Jeeves seemed to know everything. Most amazing thing. I'd been pallywith Bingo practically all my life, and yet I didn't remember everhaving heard that his uncle lived anywhere in particular.
"How did you know he lived in Pounceby Gardens?" I said.
"I am on terms of some intimacy with the elder Mr. Little's cook, sir.In fact, there is an understanding."
I'm bound to say that this gave me a bit of a start. Somehow I'd neverthought of Jeeves going in for that sort of thing.
"Do you mean you're engaged?"
"It may be said to amount to that, sir."
"Well, well!"
"She is a remarkably excellent cook, sir," said Jeeves, as though hefelt called on to give some explanation. "What was it you wished to askme about Mr. Little?"
I sprang the details on him.
"And that's how the matter stands, Jeeves," I said. "I think we oughtto rally round a trifle and help poor old Bingo put the thing through.Tell me about old Mr. Little. What sort of a chap is he?"
"A somewhat curious character, sir. Since retiring from business he hasbecome a great recluse, and now devotes himself almost entirely to thepleasures of the table."
"Greedy hog, you mean?"
"I would not, perhaps, take the liberty of describing him in preciselythose terms, sir. He is what is usually called a gourmet. Veryparticular about what he eats, and for that reason sets a high value onMiss Watson's services."
"The cook?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, it looks to me as though our best plan would be to shoot youngBingo in on him after dinner one night. Melting mood, I mean to say,and all that."
"The difficulty is, sir, that at the moment Mr. Little is on a diet,owing to an attack of gout."
"Things begin to look wobbly."
"No, sir, I fancy that the elder Mr. Little's misfortune may be turnedto the younger Mr. Little's advantage. I was speaking only the otherday to Mr. Little's valet, and he was telling me that it has become hisprincipal duty to read to Mr. Little in the evenings. If I were in yourplace, sir, I should send young Mr. Little to read to his uncle."
"Nephew's devotion, you mean? Old man touched by kindly action, what?"
"Partly that, sir. But I would rely more on young Mr. Little's choiceof literature."
"That's no good. Jolly old Bingo has a kind face, but when it comes toliterature he stops at the _Sporting Times_."
"That difficulty may be overcome. I would be happy to select books forMr. Little to read. Perhaps I might explain my idea further?"
"I can't say I quite grasp it yet."
"The method which I advocate is what, I believe, the advertisers callDirect Suggestion, sir, consisting as it does of driving an idea homeby constant repetition. You may have had experience of the system?"
"You mean they keep on telling you that some soap or other is the best,and after a bit you come under the influence and charge round thecorner and buy a cake?"
"Exactly, sir. The same method was the basis of all the most valuablepropaganda during the recent war. I see no reason why it should not beadopted to bring about the desired result with regard to the subject'sviews on class distinctions. If young Mr. Little were to read day afterday to his uncle a series of narratives in which marriage with youngpersons of an inferior social status was held up as both feasible andadmirable, I fancy it would prepare the elder Mr. Little's mind for thereception of the information that his nephew wishes to marry a waitres
sin a tea-shop."
"_Are_ there any books of that sort nowadays? The only ones I eversee mentioned in the papers are about married couples who find lifegrey, and can't stick each other at any price."
"Yes, sir, there are a great many, neglected by the reviewers butwidely read. You have never encountered 'All for Love,' by Rosie M.Banks?"
"No."
"Nor 'A Red, Red Summer Rose,' by the same author?"
"No."
"I have an aunt, sir, who owns an almost complete set of Rosie M.Banks'. I could easily borrow as many volumes as young Mr. Little mightrequire. They make very light, attractive reading."
"Well, it's worth trying."
"I should certainly recommend the scheme, sir."
"All right, then. Toddle round to your aunt's to-morrow and grab acouple of the fruitiest. We can but have a dash at it."
"Precisely, sir."
* * * * *
Bingo reported three days later that Rosie M. Banks was the goods andbeyond a question the stuff to give the troops. Old Little had jibbedsomewhat at first at the proposed change of literary diet, he not beingmuch of a lad for fiction and having stuck hitherto exclusively to theheavier monthly reviews; but Bingo had got chapter one of "All forLove" past his guard before he knew what was happening, and after thatthere was nothing to it. Since then they had finished "A Red, RedSummer Rose," "Madcap Myrtle" and "Only a Factory Girl," and werehalfway through "The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick."
Bingo told me all this in a husky voice over an egg beaten up insherry. The only blot on the thing from his point of view was that itwasn't doing a bit of good to the old vocal cords, which were beginningto show signs of cracking under the strain. He had been looking hissymptoms up in a medical dictionary, and he thought he had got"clergyman's throat." But against this you had to set the fact that hewas making an undoubted hit in the right quarter, and also that afterthe evening's reading he always stayed on to dinner; and, from what hetold me, the dinners turned out by old Little's cook had to be tastedto be believed. There were tears in the old blighter's eyes as he goton the subject of the clear soup. I suppose to a fellow who for weekshad been tackling macaroons and limado it must have been like Heaven.
Old Little wasn't able to give any practical assistance at thesebanquets, but Bingo said that he came to the table and had his whack ofarrowroot, and sniffed the dishes, and told stories of _entrees_ he hadhad in the past, and sketched out scenarios of what he was going to doto the bill of fare in the future, when the doctor put him in shape; soI suppose he enjoyed himself, too, in a way. Anyhow, things seemed tobe buzzing along quite satisfactorily, and Bingo said he had got anidea which, he thought, was going to clinch the thing. He wouldn't tellme what it was, but he said it was a pippin.
"We make progress, Jeeves," I said.
"That is very satisfactory, sir."
"Mr. Little tells me that when he came to the big scene in 'Only aFactory Girl,' his uncle gulped like a stricken bull-pup."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Where Lord Claude takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says----"
"I am familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It was agreat favourite of my aunt's."
"I think we're on the right track."
"It would seem so, sir."
"In fact, this looks like being another of your successes. I've alwayssaid, and I always shall say, that for sheer brain, Jeeves, you standalone. All the other great thinkers of the age are simply in the crowd,watching you go by."
"Thank you very much, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction."
About a week after this, Bingo blew in with the news that his uncle'sgout had ceased to trouble him, and that on the morrow he would be backat the old stand working away with knife and fork as before.
"And, by the way," said Bingo, "he wants you to lunch with himtomorrow."
"Me? Why me? He doesn't know I exist."
"Oh, yes, he does. I've told him about you."
"What have you told him?"
"Oh, various things. Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip,laddie--you go! I should think lunch to-morrow would be somethingspecial."
I don't know why it was, but even then it struck me that there wassomething dashed odd--almost sinister, if you know what I mean--aboutyoung Bingo's manner. The old egg had the air of one who has somethingup his sleeve.
"There is more in this than meets the eye," I said. "Why should youruncle ask a fellow to lunch whom he's never seen?"
"My dear old fathead, haven't I just said that I've been telling himall about you--that you're my best pal--at school together, and allthat sort of thing?"
"But even then--and another thing. Why are you so dashed keen on mygoing?"
Bingo hesitated for a moment.
"Well, I told you I'd got an idea. This is it. I want you to spring thenews on him. I haven't the nerve myself."
"What! I'm hanged if I do!"
"And you call yourself a pal of mine!"
"Yes, I know; but there are limits."
"Bertie," said Bingo reproachfully, "I saved your life once."
"When?"
"Didn't I? It must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, wewere boys together and all that. You can't let me down."
"Oh, all right," I said. "But, when you say you haven't nerve enoughfor any dashed thing in the world, you misjudge yourself. A fellowwho----"
"Cheerio!" said young Bingo. "One-thirty to-morrow. Don't be late."
* * * * *
I'm bound to say that the more I contemplated the binge, the less Iliked it. It was all very well for Bingo to say that I was slated for amagnificent lunch; but what good is the best possible lunch to a fellowif he is slung out into the street on his ear during the soup course?However, the word of a Wooster is his bond and all that sort of rot, soat one-thirty next day I tottered up the steps of No. 16, PouncebyGardens, and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was up in thedrawing-room, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in mylife.
The motto of the Little family was evidently "variety." Young Bingo islong and thin and hasn't had a superfluous ounce on him since we firstmet; but the uncle restored the average and a bit over. The hand whichgrasped mine wrapped it round and enfolded it till I began to wonder ifI'd ever get it out without excavating machinery.
"Mr. Wooster, I am gratified--I am proud--I am honoured."
It seemed to me that young Bingo must have boosted me to some purpose.
"Oh, ah!" I said.
He stepped back a bit, still hanging on to the good right hand.
"You are very young to have accomplished so much!"
I couldn't follow the train of thought. The family, especially my AuntAgatha, who has savaged me incessantly from childhood up, have alwaysrather made a point of the fact that mine is a wasted life, and that,since I won the prize at my first school for the best collection ofwild flowers made during the summer holidays, I haven't done a dam'thing to land me on the nation's scroll of fame. I was wondering if hecouldn't have got me mixed up with someone else, when thetelephone-bell rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to saythat I was wanted. I buzzed down, and found it was young Bingo.
"Hallo!" said young Bingo. "So you've got there? Good man! I knew Icould rely on you. I say, old crumpet, did my uncle seem pleased to seeyou?"
"Absolutely all over me. I can't make it out."
"Oh, that's all right. I just rang up to explain. The fact is, old man,I know you won't mind, but I told him that you were the author of thosebooks I've been reading to him."
"What!"
"Yes, I said that 'Rosie M. Banks' was your pen-name, and you didn'twant it generally known, because you were a modest, retiring sort ofchap. He'll listen to you now. Absolutely hang on your words. Abrightish idea, what? I doubt if Jeeves in person could have thought upa better one than that. Well, pitch it strong, old lad, and keepsteadily before you the fact that I mus
t have my allowance raised. Ican't possibly marry on what I've got now. If this film is to end withthe slow fade-out on the embrace, at least double is indicated. Well,that's that. Cheerio!"
And he rang off. At that moment the gong sounded, and the genial hostcame tumbling downstairs like the delivery of a ton of coals.
* * * * *
I always look back to that lunch with a sort of aching regret. It wasthe lunch of a lifetime, and I wasn't in a fit state to appreciate it.Subconsciously, if you know what I mean, I could see it was prettyspecial, but I had got the wind up to such a frightful extent over theghastly situation in which young Bingo had landed me that its deepermeaning never really penetrated. Most of the time I might have beeneating sawdust for all the good it did me.
Old Little struck the literary note right from the start.
"My nephew has probably told you that I have been making a close studyof your books of late?" he began.
"Yes. He did mention it. How--er--how did you like the bally things?"
He gazed reverently at me.
"Mr. Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyesas I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can havebeen able to plumb human nature so surely to its depths; to play withso unerring a hand on the quivering heart-strings of your reader; towrite novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!"
"Oh, it's just a knack," I said.
The good old persp. was bedewing my forehead by this time in a prettylavish manner. I don't know when I've been so rattled.
"Do you find the room a trifle warm?"
"Oh, no, no, rather not. Just right."
"Then it's the pepper. If my cook has a fault--which I am not preparedto admit--it is that she is inclined to stress the pepper a trifle inher made dishes. By the way, do you like her cooking?"
I was so relieved that we had got off the subject of my literary outputthat I shouted approval in a ringing baritone.
"I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to mymind that woman is a genius."
"Absolutely!" I said.
"She has been with me seven years, and in all that time I have notknown her guilty of a single lapse from the highest standard. Exceptonce, in the winter of 1917, when a purist might have condemned acertain mayonnaise of hers as lacking in creaminess. But one must makeallowances. There had been several air-raids about that time, and nodoubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect in this world,Mr. Wooster, and I have had my cross to bear. For seven years I havelived in constant apprehension lest some evilly-disposed person mightlure her from my employment. To my certain knowledge she has receivedoffers, lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You may judge ofmy dismay, Mr. Wooster, when only this morning the bolt fell. She gavenotice!"
"Good Lord!"
"Your consternation does credit, if I may say so, to the heart of theauthor of 'A Red, Red Summer Rose.' But I am thankful to say the worsthas not happened. The matter has been adjusted. Jane is not leavingme."
"Good egg!"
"Good egg, indeed--though the expression is not familiar to me. I donot remember having come across it in your books. And, speaking of yourbooks, may I say that what has impressed me about them even more thanthe moving poignancy of the actual narrative, is your philosophy oflife. If there were more men like you, Mr. Wooster, London would be abetter place."
This was dead opposite to my Aunt Agatha's philosophy of life, shehaving always rather given me to understand that it is the presence init of chappies like me that makes London more or less of a plague spot;but I let it go.
"Let me tell you, Mr. Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defianceof the outworn fetishes of a purblind social system. I appreciate it!You are big enough to see that rank is but the guinea stamp and that,in the magnificent words of Lord Bletchmore in 'Only a Factory Girl,''Be her origin ne'er so humble, a good woman is the equal of the finestlady on earth!'"
I sat up.
"I say! Do you think that?"
"I do, Mr. Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when Iwas like other men, a slave to the idiotic convention which we callClass Distinction. But, since I read your books----"
I might have known it. Jeeves had done it again.
"You think it's all right for a chappie in what you might call acertain social position to marry a girl of what you might describe asthe lower classes?"
"Most assuredly I do, Mr. Wooster."
I took a deep breath, and slipped him the good news.
"Young Bingo--your nephew, you know--wants to marry a waitress," Isaid.
"I honour him for it," said old Little.
"You don't object?"
"On the contrary."
I took another deep breath and shifted to the sordid side of thebusiness.
"I hope you won't think I'm butting in, don't you know," I said,"but--er--well, how about it?"
"I fear I do not quite follow you."
"Well, I mean to say, his allowance and all that. The money you're goodenough to give him. He was rather hoping that you might see your way tojerking up the total a bit."
Old Little shook his head regretfully.
"I fear that can hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position iscompelled to save every penny. I will gladly continue my nephew'sexisting allowance, but beyond that I cannot go. It would not be fairto my wife."
"What! But you're not married?"
"Not yet. But I propose to enter upon that holy state almostimmediately. The lady who for years has cooked so well for me honouredme by accepting my hand this very morning." A cold gleam of triumphcame into his eye. "Now let 'em try to get her away from me!" hemuttered, defiantly.
* * * * *
"Young Mr. Little has been trying frequently during the afternoon toreach you on the telephone, sir," said Jeeves that night, when I gothome.
"I'll bet he has," I said. I had sent poor old Bingo an outline of thesituation by messenger-boy shortly after lunch.
"He seemed a trifle agitated."
"I don't wonder. Jeeves," I said, "so brace up and bite the bullet. I'mafraid I've bad news for you.
"That scheme of yours--reading those books to old Mr. Little and allthat--has blown out a fuse."
"They did not soften him?"
"They did. That's the whole bally trouble. Jeeves, I'm sorry to saythat _fiancee_ of yours--Miss Watson, you know--the cook, youknow--well, the long and the short of it is that she's chosen richesinstead of honest worth, if you know what I mean."
"Sir?"
"She's handed you the mitten and gone and got engaged to old Mr.Little!"
"Indeed, sir?"
"You don't seem much upset."
"That fact is, sir, I had anticipated some such outcome."
I stared at him. "Then what on earth did you suggest the scheme for?"
"To tell you the truth, sir, I was not wholly averse from a severanceof my relations with Miss Watson. In fact, I greatly desired it. Irespect Miss Watson exceedingly, but I have seen for a long time thatwe were not suited. Now, the _other_ young person with whom I havean understanding----"
"Great Scott, Jeeves! There isn't another?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long has this been going on?"
"For some weeks, sir. I was greatly attracted by her when I first mether at a subscription dance at Camberwell."
"My sainted aunt! Not----"
Jeeves inclined his head gravely.
"Yes, sir. By an odd coincidence it is the same young person that youngMr. Little--I have placed the cigarettes on the small table. Goodnight, sir."