“Miss Hemmingway, sir? Yes, sir.”
“Aunt Agatha wants me to marry her.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Well, what about it?”
“Sir?”
“I mean, have you anything to suggest?”
“No, sir.”
The blighter’s manner was so cold and unchummy that I bit the bullet and had a dash at being airy.
“Oh, well, tra-la-la!” I said.
“Precisely, sir,” said Jeeves.
And that was, so to speak, that.
I remember—it must have been when I was at school because I don’t go in for that sort of thing very largely nowadays—reading a poem or something about something or other in which there was a line which went, if I’ve got it rightly, “Shades of the prison house begin to close upon the growing boy.” Well, what I’m driving at is that during the next two weeks that’s exactly how