Or what one may loosely call his mind.
William, ninth Earl of Rowcester, though intensely amiable and beloved by all who knew him, was far from being a mental giant. From his earliest years his intimates had been aware that, while his heart was unquestionably in the right place, there was a marked shortage of the little grey cells, and it was generally agreed that whoever won the next Nobel prize, it would not be Bill Rowcester. At the Drones Club, of which he had been a member since leaving school, it was estimated that in the matter of intellect he ranked somewhere in between Freddie Widgeon and Pongo Twistleton, which is pretty low down on the list. There were some, indeed, who held his I.q. to be inferior to that of Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps.
Against this must be set the fact that, like all his family, he was extremely good-looking, though those who considered him so might have revised their views, had they seen him now. For in addition to wearing a very loud check coat with bulging, voluminous pockets and a crimson tie with blue horseshoes on it which smote the beholder like a blow, he had a large black patch over his left eye and on his upper lip a ginger moustache of the outsize or soupstrainer type. In the clean-shaven world in which we live today it is not often that one sees a moustache of this almost tropical luxuriance, and it is not often, it may be added, that one wants to.
A black patch and a ginger moustache are grave defects, but that the ninth Earl was not wholly dead to a sense of shame was shown by the convulsive start, like the leap of an adagio dancer, which he gave a moment later when, wandering about the room, he suddenly caught sight of himself in an old-world mirror that hung on the wall.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, recoiling.
With nervous fingers he removed the patch, thrust it into his pocket, tore the fungoid growth from his lip and struggled out of the check coat. This done, he went to the window, leaned out and called in a low, conspiratorial voice.
"Jeeves!"
There was no answer.
"Hi, Jeeves, where are you?"
Again silence.
Bill gave a whistle, then another. He was still whistling, his body half-way through the French window, when the door behind him opened, revealing a stately form.
The man who entered—or perhaps one should say shimmered into—the room was tall and dark and impressive. He might have been one of the better-class ambassadors or the youngish High Priest of some refined and dignified religion.
His eyes gleamed with the light of intelligence, and his finely chiselled face expressed a feudal desire to be of service. His whole air was that of a gentleman's gentleman who, having developed his brain over a course of years by means of a steady fish diet, is eager to place that brain at the disposal of the young master. He was carrying over one arm a coat of sedate colour and a tie of conservative pattern.
"You whistled, m'lord?" he said.
Bill spun round.
"How the dickens did you get over there, Jeeves?"
"I ran the car into the garage, m'lord, and then made my way to the servants' quarters. Your coat, m'lord."
"Oh, thanks. I see you've changed."
"I deemed it advisable, m'lord. The gentleman was not far behind us as we rounded into the straight and may at any moment be calling. were he to encounter on the threshold a butler in a check suit and a false moustache, it is possible that his suspicions might be aroused. I am glad to see that your lordship has removed that somewhat distinctive tie. Excellent for creating atmosphere on the racecourse, it is scarcely vogue in private life."
Bill eyed the repellent object with a shudder.
"I've always hated that beastly thing, Jeeves.
All those foul horseshoes. Shove it away somewhere. And the coat."
"Very good, m'lord. This coffer should prove adequate as a temporary receptacle."
Jeeves took the coat and tie, and crossed the room to where a fine old oak dower chest stood, an heirloom long in the Rowcester family.
"Yes," he said, "'Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve."
He folded the distressing objects carefully, placed them inside and closed the lid. And even this simple act he performed with a quiet dignity which would have impressed any spectator less agitated than Bill Rowcester. It was like seeing the plenipotentiary of a great nation lay a wreath on the tomb of a deceased monarch.
But Bill, as we say, was agitated. He was brooding over an earlier remark that had fallen from this great man's lips.
"What do you mean, the gentleman may at any moment be calling?" he asked. The thought of receiving a visit from that red-faced man with the loud voice who had bellowed abuse at him all the way from Epsom Downs to Southmoltonshire was not an unmixedly agreeable one.
"It is possible that he observed and memorized the number of our car, m'lord. He was in a position to study our licence plate for some considerable time, your lordship will recollect."
Bill sank limply into a chair and brushed a bead of perspiration from his forehead. This contingency, as Jeeves would have called it, had not occurred to him.
Placed before him now, it made him feel filleted.
"Oh, golly, I never thought of that. Then he would get the owner's name and come racing along here, wouldn't he?"
"So one would be disposed to imagine, m'lord."
"Hell's bells, Jeeves!"
"Yes, m'lord."
Bill applied the handkerchief to his forehead again.
"What do I do if he does?"
"I would advise your lordship to assume a nonchalant air and disclaim all knowledge of the matter."
"With a light laugh, you mean?"
"Precisely, m'lord."
Bill tried a light laugh. "How did that sound, Jeeves?"
"Barely adequate, m'lord."
"More like a death rattle?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"I shall need a few rehearsals."
"Several, m'lord. It will be essential to carry conviction."
Bill kicked petulantly at a footstool.
"How do you expect me to carry conviction, feeling the way I do?"
"I can readily appreciate that your lordship is disturbed."
"I'm all of a twitter. Have you ever seen a jelly hit by a cyclone?"
"No, m'lord, I have never been present on such an occasion."
"It quivers. So do I."
"After such an ordeal your lordship would be unstrung."
"Ordeal is the right word, Jeeves. Apart from the frightful peril one is in, it was so dashed ignominious having to leg it like that."
"I should hardly describe our recent activities as legging it, m'lord. "Strategic retreat" is more the mot juste. This is a recognized military manoeuvre, practised by all the greatest tacticians when the occasion seemed to call for such a move. I have no doubt that General Eisenhower has had recourse to it from time to time."
"But I don't suppose he had a fermenting punter after him, shouting "Welsher!" at the top of his voice."
"Possibly not, m'lord."
Bill brooded. "It was that word "Welsher" that hurt, Jeeves."
"I can readily imagine it, m'lord.
Objected to as irrelevant, incompetent and immaterial, as I believe the legal expression is. As your lordship several times asseverated during our precarious homeward journey, you have every intention of paying the gentleman."
"Of course I have. No argument about that.
Naturally I intend to brass up to the last penny. It's a case of ... what, Jeeves?"
"Noblesse oblige, m'lord."
"Exactly. The honour of the Rowcesters is at stake. But I must have time, dash it, to raise three thousand pounds two and six."