“Jeeves,” I said, when he came back, “you don’t read a paper called Milady’s Boudoir by any chance, do you?”
“No, sir. The periodical has not come to my notice.”
“Well, spring sixpence on it next week, because this article will appear in it. Wooster on the well-dressed man, don’t you know.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, Jeeves. I’ve rather extended myself over this little bijou. There’s a bit about socks that I think you will like.”
He took the manuscript, brooded over it, and smiled a gentle, approving smile.
“The sock passage is quite in the proper vein, sir,” he said.
“Well expressed, what?”
“Extremely, sir.”
I watched him narrowly as he read on, and, as I was expecting, what you might call the love-light suddenly died out of his eyes. I braced myself for an unpleasant scene.
“Come to the bit about soft silk shirts for evening wear?” I asked, carelessly.
“Yes, sir,” said Jeeves, in a low, cold voice, as if he had been bitten in the leg by a personal friend. “And if I may be pardoned for saying so—”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, sir. I do not. Soft silk shirts with evening costume are not worn, sir.”
“Jeeves,” I said, looking the blighter diametrically in the centre of the eyeball, “they’re dashed well going to be. I may as well tell you now that I have ordered a dozen of those shirtings from Peabody and Simms, and it’s no good looking like that, because I am jolly well adamant.”
“If I might—”
“No, Jeeves,” I said, raising my hand, “argument is useless. Nobody has a greater respect than I have for your judgment in socks, in ties, and—I will go farther—in spats; but when it comes to evening shirts your nerve seems to fail you. You have no vision. You are prejudiced and reactionary. Hidebound is the word that suggests itself. It may interest you to learn that when I was at Le Touquet the Prince of Wales buzzed into the Casino one night with soft silk shirt complete.”
“His Royal Highness, sir, may permit himself a certain licence which in your own case—”
“No, Jeeves,” I said, firmly, “it’s no use. When we Woosters are adamant, we are—well, adamant, if you know what I mean.”
“Very good, sir.”
I could see the man was wounded, and, of course, the whole episode had been extremely jarring and unpleasant; but these things have to be gone through. Is one a serf or isn’t one? That’s what it all boils down to. Having made my point, I changed the subject.
“Well, that’s that,” I said. “We now approach another topic. Do you know any housemaids, Jeeves?”
“Housemaids, sir?”
“Come, come, Jeeves, you know what housemaids are. Females who get housemaid’s knee.”
“Are you requiring a housemaid, sir?”
“No, but Mr. Little is. I met him at the club a couple of days ago, and he told me that Mrs. Little is offering rich rewards to anybody who will find her one guaranteed to go light on the china.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes. The one now in office apparently runs through the objets d’art like a typhoon, simoom, or sirocco. So if you know any—”
“I know a great many, sir. Some intimately, others mere acquaintances.”
“Well, start digging round among the old pals. And now the hat, the stick, and other necessaries. I must be getting along and handing in this article.”
The offices of Milady’s Boudoir were in one of those rummy streets in the Covent Garden neighbourhood; and I had just got to the door, after wading through a deep topdressing of old cabbages and tomatoes, when who should come out but Mrs. Little. She greeted me with the warmth due to the old family friend, in spite of the fact that I hadn’t been round to the house for a goodish while.
“Whatever are you doing in these parts, Bertie? I thought you never came east of Leicester Square.”
“I’ve come to deliver an article of sorts which my Aunt Dahlia asked me to write. She edits a species of journal up those stairs. Milady’s Boudoir.”
“What a coincidence! I have just promised to write an article for her, too.”
“Don’t you do it,” I said, earnestly. “You’ve simply no notion what a ghastly labour—Oh, but, of course, I was forgetting. You’re used to it, what?”
Silly of me to have talked like that. Young Bingo Little, if you remember, had married the famous female novelist, Rosie M. Banks, author of some of the most pronounced and widely-read tripe ever put on the market. Naturally a mere article would be pie for her.
“No, I don’t think it will give me much trouble,” she said. “Your aunt has suggested a most delightful subject.”
“That’s good. By the way, I spoke to my man Jeeves about getting you a housemaid. He knows all the hummers.”
“Thank you so much. Oh, are you doing anything tomorrow night?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then do come and dine with us. Your aunt is coming, and hopes to bring your uncle. I am looking forward to meeting him.”
“Thanks. Delighted.”
I meant it, too. The Little household may be weak on housemaids, but it is right there when it comes to cooks. Somewhere or other some time ago Bingo’s missus managed to dig up a Frenchman of the most extraordinary vim and skill. A most amazing Johnnie who dishes a wicked ragoût. Old Bingo has put on at least ten pounds in weight
