them even more than the moving poignancy of 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 dead opposite to my Aunt Agatha’s philosophy of life, she having always rather given me to understand that it is the presence in it of chappies like me that makes London more or less of a plague spot; but I let it go.

“Let me tell you, Mr. Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the outworn fetishes of a purblind social system. I appreciate it! You are big enough to see that rank is but the guinea stamp and that, in the magnificent words of Lord Bletchmore in ‘Only a Factory Girl,’ ‘Be her origin ne’er so humble, a good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!’”

I sat up.

“I say! 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 books——”

I might have known it. Jeeves had done it again.

“You think it’s all right for a chappie in what you might call a certain social position to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?”

“Most assuredly I do, Mr. Wooster.”

I took a deep breath, and slipped 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 and shifted to the sordid side of the business.

“I hope you won’t think I’m butting in, don’t you know,” I said, “but—er—well, how about it?”

“I fear I do not quite follow you.”

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