The drive that afternoon was about as mouldy as I had expected. The curate chappie prattled on of this and that; the girl admired the view; and I got a headache early in the proceedings which started at the soles of my feet and got worse all the way up. I tottered back to my room to dress for dinner, feeling like a toad under the harrow. If it hadn’t been for that cummerbund business earlier in the day I could have sobbed on Jeeves’s neck and poured out all my troubles to him. Even as it was, I couldn’t keep the thing entirely to myself.
“I say, Jeeves,” I said.
“Sir?”
“Mix me a stiffish brandy and soda.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stiffish, Jeeves. Not too much soda, but splash the brandy about a bit.”
“Very good, sir.”
After imbibing, I felt a shade better.
“Jeeves,” I said.
“Sir?”
“I rather fancy I’m in the soup, Jeeves.”
“Indeed, sir?”
I eyed the man narrowly. Dashed aloof his manner was. Still brooding over the cummerbund.
“Yes. Right up to the hocks,” I said, suppressing the pride of the Woosters and trying to induce him to be a bit matier. “Have you seen a girl popping about here with a parson brother?”