Well—I mean to say—what? And Nietzsche, from all accounts, a lot worse than that!
“Jeeves,” I said, when he came in with my morning tea, “I’ve been thinking it over. You’re engaged again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I sucked down a cheerful mouthful. A great respect for this bloke’s judgment began to soak through me.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said; “about that check suit.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is it really a frost?”
“A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.”
“But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.”
“Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.”
“I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.”
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie’s clutches, and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in a lot of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.