“These things are matters of opinion, sir.”

“When I wore it at the Casino at Cannes, beautiful women nudged one another and whispered: ‘Who is he?’”

“The code at Continental casinos is notoriously lax, sir.”

“And when I described it to Pongo last night, he was fascinated.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“So were all the rest of those present. One and all admitted that I had got hold of a good thing. Not a dissentient voice.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“I am convinced that you will eventually learn to love this mess-jacket, Jeeves.”

“I fear not, sir.”

I gave it up. It is never any use trying to reason with Jeeves on these occasions. “Pig-headed” is the word that springs to the lips. One sighs and passes on.

“Well, anyway, returning to the agenda, I can’t go down to Brinkley Court or anywhere else yet awhile. That’s final. I’ll tell you what, Jeeves. Give me form and pencil, and I’ll wire her that I’ll be with her some time next week or the week after. Dash it all, she ought to be able to hold out without me for a few days. It only requires will power.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right ho, then. I’ll wire ‘Expect me tomorrow fortnight’ or words to some such effect. That ought to meet the case. Then if you will toddle round the corner and send it off, that will be that.”

“Very good, sir.”

And so the long day wore on till it was time for me to dress for Pongo’s party.

Pongo had assured me, while chatting of the affair on the previous night, that this birthday binge of his was to be on a scale calculated to stagger humanity, and I must say I have participated in less fruity functions. It was well after four when I got home, and by that time I was about ready to turn in. I can just remember groping for the bed and crawling into it, and it seemed to me that the lemon had scarcely touched the pillow before I was aroused by the sound of the door opening.

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