I might have known it. Jeeves had done it again.

“You think it’s all right for a chappie in what you might call a certain social position to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?”

“Most assuredly I do, Mr. Wooster.”

I took a deep breath, and slipped him the good news.

“Young Bingo⁠—your nephew, you know⁠—wants to marry a waitress,” I said.

“I honour him for it,” said old Little.

“You don’t object?”

“On the contrary.”

I took another deep breath and shifted to the sordid side of the business.