it.
“Don’t rub it in, my dear old gardener’s daughter,” I pleaded. “You don’t know it, but you’ve hit on rather a painful subject.”
“Ah, Wooster, my dear fellow! So you have made friends with this little lady?”
It was old Heppenstall, beaming pretty profusely.
Life and soul of the party.
“I am delighted, my dear Wooster,” he went on, “quite delighted at the way you young men are throwing yourselves into the spirit of this little festivity of ours.”
“Oh, yes?” I said.
“Oh, yes! Even Rupert Steggles. I must confess that my opinion of Rupert Steggles has materially altered for the better this afternoon.”
Mine hadn’t. But I didn’t say so.
“I have always considered Rupert Steggles, between