“Stiffish, Jeeves. Not too much soda, but splash the brandy about a bit.”

“Very good, sir.”

After imbibing, I felt a shade better.

“Jeeves,” I said.

“Sir?”

“I rather fancy I’m in the soup, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir?”

I eyed the man narrowly. Dashed aloof his manner was. Still brooding over the cummerbund.

“Yes. Right up to the hocks,” I said, suppressing the pride of the Woosters and trying to induce him to be a bit matier. “Have you seen a girl popping about here with a parson brother?”

“Miss Hemmingway, sir? Yes, sir.”

“Aunt Agatha wants me to marry her.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Well, what about it?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, have you anything to suggest?”

“No, sir.”

The blighter’s manner was so cold and unchummy that I bit the bullet and had a dash at being airy.

“Oh, well, tra-la-la!” I said.

“Precisely, sir,” said Jeeves.

And that was, so to speak, that.

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