And no sympathy from Jeeves. That was what cut me to the quick. The man was still thoroughly pipped about the hat and tie, and simply wouldn’t rally round. One morning I wanted comforting so much that I sank the pride of the Woosters and appealed to the fellow direct.
“Jeeves,” I said, “this is getting a bit thick!”
“Sir?” Business and cold respectfulness.
“You know what I mean. This lad seems to have chucked all the principles of a well-spent boyhood. He has got it up his nose!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I shall get blamed, don’t you know. You know what my Aunt Agatha is!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then.”
I waited a moment, but he wouldn’t unbend.
“Jeeves,” I said, “haven’t you any scheme up your sleeve for coping with this blighter?”
“No, sir.”
And he shimmered off to his lair. Obstinate devil! So dashed absurd, don’t you know. It wasn’t as if there was anything wrong with that Country Gentleman hat. It was a remarkably priceless effort, and much admired by the lads. But, just because he preferred the Longacre, he left me flat.
It was shortly after this that young Motty got the idea of bringing pals back in the small hours to continue the gay revels in the home. This was