Thank You, Jeeves

'No, sir.'

'And shall I tell you why I shall accept his invitation? Because it will enable me to get together with Miss Stoker and plead Chuffy's cause.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Not that it's going to be easy. I hardly know what line to take.'

'If I might make the suggestion, sir, I should imagine that the young lady would respond most satisfactorily to the statement that his lordship was in poor health.'

'She knows he's as fit as a fiddle.'

'Poor health induced since her parting from him by distress of mind.'

'Ah! I get you. Distraught?'

'Precisely, sir.'

'Contemplating self-destruction?'

'Exactly, sir.'

'Her gentle heart would be touched by that, you think?'

'Very conceivably, sir.'

'Then that is the vein I shall work. I see this invitation says dinner at seven. A bit on the early side, what?'

'I presume that the arrangements have been made with a view to the convenience of Master Dwight, sir. This would be the birthday party of which I informed you yesterday.'

'Of course, yes. With nigger minstrel entertainment to follow. They are coming all right, I take it?'

'Yes, sir. The Negroes will be present.'

'I wonder if there would be any chance of a word with the one who plays the banjo. There are certain points in his execution I would like to consult him about.'

'No doubt it could be arranged, sir.'

He seemed to speak with a certain reserve, and I could see that he felt that the conversation had taken an embarrassing turn. Probing the old sore, I mean.

Well, the best thing to do on these occasions, I've always found, is to be open and direct.

'I'm making great progress with the banjolele, Jeeves.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Would you like me to play you "What Is This Thing Called Love"?'

'No, sir.'

'Your views on the instrument are unchanged?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Ah, well! A pity we could not see eye to eye on that matter.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Still, it can't be helped. No hard feelings.'

'No, sir.'

'Unfortunate, though.'

'Most unfortunate, sir.'

'Well, tell old Stoker that I shall be there at seven prompt with my hair in a braid.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Or should I write a brief, civil note?'

'No, sir. I was instructed to bring back a verbal reply.'

'Right ho, then.'

'Very good, sir.'

At seven on the dot, accordingly, I stepped aboard the yacht and handed the hat and light overcoat to a passing salt. It was with mixed feelings that I did so, for conflicting emotions were warring in the bosom. On the one hand, the keen ozone of Chuffnell Regis had given me a good appetite, and I knew from recollections of his hosp. in New York that J. Washburn Stoker did his guests well. On the other, I had never been what you might call tranquil in his society, and I was not looking forward to it particularly now. You might put it like this if you cared to – The fleshly or corporeal Wooster was anticipating the binge with pleasure, but his spiritual side rather recoiled a bit.

In my experience, there are two kinds of elderly American. One, the stout and horn-rimmed, is matiness itself. He greets you as if you were a favourite son, starts agitating the cocktail shaker before you know where you are, slips a couple into you with a merry laugh, claps you on the back, tells you a dialect story about two Irishmen named Pat and Mike, and, in a word, makes life one grand, sweet song.

The other, which runs a good deal to the cold, grey stare and the square jaw, seems to view the English cousin with concern. It is not Elfin. It broods. It says little. It sucks in its breath in a pained way. And every now and again you catch its eye, and it is like colliding with a raw oyster.

Of this latter class or species J. Washburn Stoker had always been the perpetual vice president.

It was with considerable relief, therefore, that I found that to-night he had eased off a bit. While not precisely affable, he gave a distinct impression of being as nearly affable as he knew how.

'I hope you have no objection to a quiet family dinner, Mr Wooster?' he said, having shaken the hand.

'Rather not. Dashed good of you to ask me,' I replied, not to be outdone in the courtesies.

'Just you and Dwight and myself. My daughter is lying down. She has a headache.'

This was something of a jar. In fact, it seemed to me to take what you might describe as the whole meaning out of this expedition.

'Oh?' I said.

'I am afraid she found her exertions last night a little too much for her,' said Pop Stoker, with something of the old fishlike expression in the eye: and, reading between the lines, I rather gathered that Pauline had been sent to bed without her supper, in disgrace. Old Stoker was not one of your broad-minded, modern parents. There was, as I had had occasion to notice before, a distinct touch of the stern and rockbound old Pilgrim Father about him. A man, in short, who, in his dealings with his family, believed in the firm hand.

Observing that eye, I found it a bit difficult to shape the kindly inquiries.

'Then you – er ... she – er—?'

'Yes. You were quite right, Mr Wooster. She had gone for a swim.'

And once more, as he spoke, I caught a flash of the fishlike. I could see that Pauline's stock was far from high this p.m., and I would have liked to put in a word for the poor young blighter. But beyond an idea of saying that girls would be girls, which I abandoned, I could think of nothing.

At this moment, however, a steward of sorts announced dinner, and we pushed in.

I must say that there were moments during that dinner when I regretted that occurrences which could not be overlooked had resulted in the absence from the board of the Hall party. You will question this statement, no doubt, inclining to the view that all a dinner party needs to make it a success is for Sir Roderick Glossop, the Dowager Lady Chuffnell, and the latter's son, Seabury, not to be there. Nevertheless, I stick to my opinion. There was a certain uncomfortable something about the atmosphere which more or less turned the food to ashes in my mouth. If it hadn't been that this man, this Stoker, had gone out of his way to invite me, I should have said that I was giving him a pain in the neck. Most of the time he just sat and champed in a sort of dark silence, like a man with something on his mind. And when he did speak it was with a marked what-d'you-call-it. I mean to say, not actually out of the corner of his mouth, but very near it.

I did my best to promote a flow of conversation. But it was not till young Dwight had left the table and we were lighting the cigars that I seemed to hit on a topic that interested, elevated, and amused.

'A fine boat, this, Mr Stoker,' I said.

For the first time, something approaching animation came into the face.

'Not many better.'

'I've never done much yachting. And, except at Cowes one year, I've never been on a boat this size.'

He puffed at his cigar. An eye came swivelling round in my direction, then pushed off again.

'There are advantages in having a yacht.'

'Oh, rather.'

'Plenty of room to put your friends up.'

'Heaps.'

'And, when you've got 'em, they can't get away so easy as they could ashore.'

It seemed a rummy way of looking at it, but I supposed a man like Stoker would naturally have a difficulty in keeping guests. I mean, I took it that he had had painful experiences in the past. And nothing, of course, makes a host look sillier to have somebody arrive at his country house for a long visit and then to find, round about lunch-time the second day, that he has made a quiet sneak for the railway station.

'Care to look over the boat?' he asked.

'Fine,' I said.