I blotted the last page of my manuscript and sank back, feeling more or less of a spent force. After incredible sweat of the old brow the thing seemed to be in pretty fair shape, and I was just reading it through and debating whether to bung in another paragraph at the end, when there was a tap at the door and Jeeves appeared.
“ Mrs. Travers, sir, on the telephone.”
“Oh?” I said. Preoccupied, don’t you know.
“Yes, sir. She presents her compliments and would be glad to know what progress you have made with the article which you are writing for her.”
“Jeeves, can I mention men’s knee-length underclothing in a woman’s paper?”
“No, sir.”
“Then tell her it’s finished.”