cheesed it. I peered into the shadows. Who should it be but Jeeves’s little playmate with the freckles! He was now strolling down the aisle with his hands in his pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of respectful attention seemed to pervade the building.
“Pop,” said the stripling, “that number’s no good.” Old Blumenfield beamed over his shoulder.
“Don’t you like it, darling?”
“It gives me a pain.”
“You’re dead right.”
“You want something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!”
“Quite right, my boy. I’ll make a note of it. All right. Go on!”
I turned to George, who was muttering to himself in rather an overwrought way.
“I say, George, old man, who the dickens is that