“Oh, it’s nothing special,” I said.
It was terribly hot in the room.
“Do you find the room a little warm?” he asked.
“Oh, no, no, rather not. Just right.”
“Then it’s the pepper. If my cook has a fault—which I am not prepared to admit—it is that she adores pepper. By the way, do you like her cooking?”
I was so relieved that we had changed the subject that I shouted approval.
“I am delighted to hear it, Mr Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that woman is a genius.”
“Absolutely!” I said.
“She has been with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of 1917, a certain mayonnaise of hers was not soft enough. But there had been several air-raids[39] about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect in this world, Mr Wooster. For seven years I have lived in constant apprehension lest some person might lure her. To my certain knowledge she has received offers, lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You can imagine, Mr Wooster, my sorrow when she said that she was going to change her place of employment!”
“Good Lord!”
“Oh, my dear author of A Red, Red Summer Rose! But I am glad to say the worst has not happened. Jane[40] is not leaving me.”
“Wonderful!”
“Wonderful, indeed. And, speaking of your books, may I say that what has impressed me about them even more than the actual narrative, is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr Wooster, London would be a better place.”
This was opposite to my Aunt Agatha’s philosophy of life, she has always told me that it is the presence of guys like me that makes London a plague spot.
“Let me tell you, Mr Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the fetishes of a social system. I appreciate it! I remember the words of Lord Bletchmore in Only a Factory Girl, “Be her origin never so humble, a good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!’ ”
“Really! Do you think that?”
“I do, Mr Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was like other men, a slave to the idiotic convention which we call Class Distinction. But, since I read your book—”
“You think it’s all right for a guy to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?”
“Of course I do, Mr Wooster.”
I took a deep breath, and told him the good news.
“Young Bingo—your nephew, you know—wants to marry a waitress,” I said.
“I honour him for it,” said Old Little.
“You don’t object?”
“On the contrary.”
I took another deep breath.
“I hope you won’t think I’m butting in[41],” I said, “but—er—well, how about it?”
“I fear I do not quite follow you.”
“Well, I mean to say … The money you’re good enough to give him. He was rather hoping that you—because of his marriage—might add some money to his income.”
Old Little shook his head regretfully.
“I fear that can hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position must save every penny. I will gladly continue my nephew’s existing allowance, but beyond that I cannot go. It would not be fair to my wife.”
“What! But you’re not married?”
“Not yet. But I think about it. The lady who for years has cooked so well for me honoured me by accepting my hand this very morning.” A cold gleam of triumph came into his eye. “Now let them try to get her away from me!” he muttered.
“Young Mr Little has been calling you during the afternoon, sir,” said Jeeves that night, when I got home.
“No wonder,” I said. I had sent poor old Bingo a note by messenger-boy shortly after lunch.
“He seemed a little agitated.”
“I don’t wonder, Jeeves,” I said, “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you. That scheme of yours—reading those books to old Mr Little and all that—has led to nowhere.”
“They did not soften him?”
“They did. That’s the whole trouble. Jeeves, I’m sorry to say that fiancée[42] of yours—Miss Watson, you know—the cook, you know—well, she’s chosen riches, if you know what I mean.”
“Sir?”
“She’s got engaged to old Mr Little!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“You don’t seem much upset.”
“The fact is, sir, I had anticipated some such outcome.”
I stared at him. “Then why did you suggest me that scheme?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, I was not wholly happy with my relations with Miss Watson. I respect her exceedingly, but I have seen for a long time that we were not suited. Now, the other young person with whom I have an understanding—”
“Oh Lord, 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 met her at a subscription dance at Camberwell.”
“Oh Jesus! Not—”
Jeeves inclined his head gravely.
“Yes, sir. By an odd coincidence it is the same young person in whom young Mr Little has been so interested. Good night, sir.”
3
Aunt Agatha Speaks her Mind[43]
To be honest, I can’t say I was sorry for Bingo. Less than a week after he had had the bad news I saw him dancing with some girl at Giro’s[44].
Bingo is unsinkable. He never went down. When his little love-affairs are actually on, nobody could be more earnest; but once the girl has handed him his hat and begged him never to let her see him again, he is as merry as ever. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times.
So I didn’t worry about Bingo. Or about anything else, as a matter of fact. Life was wonderful. Everything seemed to be going right. Even three horses on which I’d invested a sizeable amount won instead of sitting down to rest in the middle of the race, as horses usually do when I’ve got money on them.
Added to this, the weather was excellent; Jeeves liked my new socks; and my Aunt Agatha had gone to France for at least six weeks. And, if you knew my Aunt Agatha, you’d agree that that alone was happiness enough for anyone.
One morning while I was having my bath, I began to sing like a bally nightingale. It seemed to me that everything was absolutely for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
But have you ever noticed a strange thing about life? When I dried myself and came into the sittingroom, I saw a letter from Aunt Agatha on the mantelpiece.
“Oh God!” I said when I’d read it.
“Sir?” said Jeeves.
“It’s from my Aunt