stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realised. There was a bit of a silence. The child remained there, drinking Cyril in for about half a minute; then he gave his verdict:
“Fish-face!”
“Eh? What?” said Cyril.
The child, who had evidently been taught at his mother’s knee to speak the truth, made his meaning a trifle clearer.
“You’ve a face like a fish!”
He spoke as if Cyril was more to be pitied than censured, which I am bound to say I thought rather decent and broad-minded of him.
I don’t mind admitting that, whenever I looked at Cyril’s face, I always had a feeling that he couldn’t have got that way without its being mostly his own fault.
I found myself warming to this child. Absolutely, don’t you know. I liked his conversation.
It seemed to take Cyril a moment or two really to grasp the thing, and then you could hear the blood of the Bassington-Bassingtons begin to sizzle.
“Well, I’m dashed!” he said. “I’m dashed if I’m not!”
“I wouldn’t have a face like that,” proceeded the child, with a good deal of earnestness, “not if you gave me a million dollars.” He thought for a moment, then corrected himself. “Two million dollars!” he added.
Just what occurred then I couldn’t exactly say, but the next few minutes were a bit exciting. I take it that Cyril must have