“Why, of course, I see now! You’re married!” 

 “Yes.” 

 “How perfectly topping! I wish you all kinds of happiness.” 

 “Thank you, so much. Oh Alexander,” she said, looking past me, “this is a friend of mine—Mr. Wooster.” 

 I spun round. A chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort of healthy face was standing there. Rather a formidable Johnnie, he looked, though quite peaceful at the moment. 

 “I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Wooster. Mr. Wooster is a friend of Bruce’s, Alexander.” 

 The old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from hitting the floor in a heap. The place was rocking. Absolutely. 

 “So you know my nephew, Mr. Wooster,” I heard him say. “I wish you would try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this playing at painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying down. I noticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be introduced to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more serious. Something seemed to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner to-night, Mr. Wooster? Or have you dined?” 

 I said I had. What I needed then was air, not dinner. I felt that I wanted to get into the open and think this thing out. 

 When I reached my apartment I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair. I called him. 

 “Jeeves,” I said, “now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party. A stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then I’ve a bit of news for you.” 

 He came back with a tray and a long glass. 

 “Better have one yourself, Jeeves. You’ll need it.” 

 “Later on, perhaps, thank you, sir.” 

 “All right. Please yourself. But you’re going to get a shock. You remember my friend, Mr. Corcoran?” 

 “Yes, sir.” 

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