'Get out!'
'I think you would also have found her educational methods a little trying, sir. I have glanced at the book her ladyship gave you—it has been lying on your table since our arrival—and it is, in my opinion, quite unsuitable. You would not have enjoyed it. And I have it from her ladyship's own maid, who happened to overhear a conversation between her ladyship and one of the gentlemen staying here—Mr. Maxwell, who is employed in an editorial capacity by one of the reviews—that it was her intention to start you almost immediately upon Nietzsche. You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.'
'Get out!'
'Very good, sir.'
It's rummy how sleeping on a thing often makes you feel quite different about it. It's happened to me over and over again. Somehow or other, when I woke next morning the old heart didn't feel half so broken as it had done. It was a perfectly topping day, and there was something about the way the sun came in at the window and the row the birds were kicking up in the ivy that made me half wonder whether Jeeves wasn't right. After all, though she had a wonderful profile, was it such a catch being engaged to Florence Craye as the casual observer might imagine? Wasn't there something in what Jeeves had said about her character? I began to realise that my ideal wife was something quite different, something a lot more clinging and drooping and prattling, and what not.
I had got as far as this in thinking the thing out when that 'Types of Ethical Theory' caught my eye. I opened it, and I give you my honest word this was what hit me:
Of the two antithetic terms in the Greek philosophy one only was real and self-subsisting; and that one was Ideal Thought as opposed to that which it has to penetrate and mould. The other, corresponding to our Nature, was ill itself phenomenal, unreal, without any permanent footing, having no predicates that held true for two moments together; in short, redeemed from negation only by including indwelling realities appearing through.
Well—I mean to say—what? And Nietzsche, from all accounts, a lot worse than that!
'Jeeves,' I said, when he came in with my morning tea, 'I've been thinking it over. You're engaged again.'
'Thank you, sir.'
I sucked down a cheerful mouthful. A great respect for this bloke's judgement began to soak through me.
'Oh, Jeeves,' I said; 'about that check suit.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Is it really a frost?'
'A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.'
'But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.'
'Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.'
'He's supposed to be one of the best men in London.'
'I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.'
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie's clutches, and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in a lot of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.
'All right, Jeeves,' I said. 'You know! Give the bally thing away to somebody!'
He looked down at me like a father gazing tenderly at the wayward child.
'Thank you, sir. I gave it to the under-gardener last night. A little more tea, sir?'