Not a little moody Mr. Wooster had been for some days—far from his usual bright self. This I had attributed to the natural reaction from a slight attack of influenza from which he had been suffering; and, of course, took no notice, merely performing my duties as usual, until on the evening of which I speak he exhibited this remarkable petulance when I brought him his whisky and siphon.
“Oh, dash it, Jeeves!” he said, manifestly overwrought. “I wish at least you’d put it on another table for a change.”
“Sir?” I said.
“Every night, dash it all,” proceeded Mr. Wooster morosely, “you come in at exactly the same old time with the same old tray and put it on the same old table. I’m fed up, I tell you. It’s the bally monotony of it that makes it all seem so frightfully bally.”
I confess that his words filled me with a certain apprehension. I had heard gentlemen in whose employment I’ve been talk in very much the same way before, and it had almost invariably meant that they were contemplating matrimony. It disturbed me, therefore, I’m free to admit, when Mr. Wooster addressed me in this fashion. I had no desire to sever a connection so pleasant in every respect as his and mine had been, and my experience is that when the wife comes in at the front door the valet of bachelor days goes out at the back.
“It’s not your fault, of course,” went on Mr. Wooster, regaining a certain degree of composure. “I’m not blaming you. But, by Jove, I mean, you must acknowledge—I mean to say, I’ve been thinking pretty deeply these last few days, Jeeves, and I’ve come to the conclusion mine is an empty life. I’m lonely, Jeeves.”
“You have a great many friends, sir.”
“What’s the good of friends?”
“Emerson,” I reminded him, “says a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature, sir.”
“Well, you can tell Emerson from me next time you see him that he’s an ass.”
“Very good, sir.”
“What I want—Jeeves, have you seen that play called I-forget-its-dashed-name?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s on at the What-d’you-call-it. I went last night. The hero’s a chap who’s buzzing along, you know, quite merry and bright, and suddenly a kid turns up and says she’s his daughter. Left over from act one, you know—absolutely the first he’d heard of it. Well, of course, there’s a bit of a fuss and they say to him, ‘What-ho?’ and he says, ‘Well, what about it?’ and they say, ‘Well, what about it?’ and he says, ‘Oh, all right, then, if that’s the way you feel!’ and he takes the kid and goes off with her out into the world together, you know. Well, what I’m driving at, Jeeves, is that I envied that chappie. Most awfully jolly little girl, you know, clinging to him trustingly and whatnot. Something to look after, if you know what I mean. Jeeves, I wish I had a daughter. I wonder what the procedure is?”
“Marriage is, I believe, considered the preliminary step, sir.”
“No, I mean about adopting a kid. You can adopt kids, you know, Jeeves. But what I want to know is how you start about it.”
“The process, I should imagine, would be highly complicated and laborious, sir. It would cut into your spare time.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I could do, then. My sister will be back from India next week with her three little girls. I’ll give up this flat and take a house and have them all to live with me. By Jove, Jeeves, I think that’s rather a scheme, what? Prattle of childish voices, eh? Little feet pattering hither and thither, yes?”
I concealed my perturbation, but the effort to preserve my sangfroid tested my powers to the utmost. The course of action outlined by Mr. Wooster meant the finish of our cosy bachelor establishment if it came into being as a practical proposition; and no doubt some men in my place would at this juncture have voiced their disapproval. I avoided this blunder.
“If you will pardon my saying so, sir,” I suggested, “I think you are not quite yourself after your influenza. If I might express the opinion, what you require is a few days by the sea. Brighton is very handy, sir.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m talking through my hat?”
“By no means, sir. I merely advocate a short stay at Brighton as a physical recuperative.”
Mr. Wooster considered.
“Well, I’m not sure you’re not right,” he said at length. “I am feeling more or less of an onion You might shove a few things in a suitcase and drive me down in the car tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And when we get back I’ll be in the pink and ready to tackle this pattering-feet wheeze.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Well, it was a respite, and I welcomed it. But I began to see that a crisis had arisen which would require adroit handling. Rarely had I observed Mr. Wooster more set on a thing. Indeed, I could recall no such exhibition of determination on his part since the time when he had insisted, against my obvious disapproval, on wearing purple
