“Jeeves,” I said, looking the blighter diametrically in the centre of the eyeball, “they’re dashed well going to be. I may as well tell you now that I have ordered a dozen of those shirtings from Peabody and Simms, and it’s no good looking like that, because I am jolly well adamant.”

“If I might⁠—”

“No, Jeeves,” I said, raising my hand, “argument is useless. Nobody has a greater respect than I have for your judgment in socks, in ties, and⁠—I will go farther⁠—in spats; but when it comes to evening shirts your nerve seems to fail you. You have no vision. You are prejudiced and reactionary. Hidebound is the word that suggests itself. It may interest you to learn that when I was at Le Touquet the Prince of Wales buzzed into the Casino one night with soft silk shirt complete.”

“His Royal Highness, sir, may permit himself a certain licence which in your own case⁠—”