My Uncle George is a festive old bird who has made a habit for years of doing himself a dashed sight too well, with the result that he’s always got Harrogate or Buxton hanging over him like the sword of what’s-his-name. And he hates going there alone.

“It can’t be done,” I said. Uncle George is bad enough in London, and I wasn’t going to let myself be cooped up with him in one of these cure-places.

“He was extremely urgent, sir.”

“No, Jeeves,” I said, firmly. “I am always anxious to oblige, but Uncle George⁠—no, no! I mean to say, what?”

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves.

It was a pleasure to hear the way he said it. Docile the man was becoming, absolutely docile. It just showed that I had been right in putting my foot down about those shirts.