two later he meandered up the Avenue to my apartment to tell me that all was well. The uncle had written Muriel a letter so dripping with the milk of human kindness that if he hadn’t known Mr. Worple’s handwriting Corky would have refused to believe him the author of it. Any time it suited Miss Singer to call, said the uncle, he would be delighted to make her acquaintance. 

 Shortly after this I had to go out of town. Divers sound sportsmen had invited me to pay visits to their country places, and it wasn’t for several months that I settled down in the city again. I had been wondering a lot, of course, about Corky, whether it all turned out right, and so forth, and my first evening in New York, happening to pop into a quiet sort of little restaurant which I go to when I don’t feel inclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there, sitting by herself at a table near the door. Corky, I took it, was out telephoning. I went up and passed the time of day. 

 “Well, well, well, what?” I said. 

 “Why, Mr. Wooster! How do you do?” 

 “Corky around?” 

 “I beg your pardon?” 

 “You’re waiting for Corky, aren’t you?” 

 “Oh, I didn’t understand. No, I’m not waiting for him.” 

 It seemed to me that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of thingummy, you know. 

 “I say, you haven’t had a row with Corky, have you?” 

 “A row?” 

 “A spat, don’t you know—little misunderstanding—faults on both sides—er—and all that sort of thing.” 

 “Why, whatever makes you think that?” 

 “Oh, well, as it were, what? What I mean is—I thought you usually dined with him before you went to the theatre.” 

 “I’ve left the stage now.” 

 Suddenly the whole thing dawned on me. I had forgotten what a long time I had been away. 

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