“So there you are,” she said.
She seated herself by my side, and with a sort of gruesome playfulness jerked the gasper out of the holder and heaved it out of the door.
“You’re always smoking,” she said, a lot too much like a lovingly chiding young bride for my comfort. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s so bad for you. And you ought not to be sitting out here without your light overcoat. You want someone to look after you.”
“I’ve got Jeeves.”
She frowned a bit.
“I don’t like him,” she said.
“Eh? Why not?”
“I don’t know. I wish you would get rid of him.”
My flesh absolutely crept. And I’ll tell you why. One of the first things Honoria Glossop had done after we had become engaged was to tell me she didn’t like Jeeves and wanted him shot out. The realization that this girl resembled Honoria not only in body but blackness of soul made me go all faint.
“What are you reading?”
She picked up my book, and frowned again. The thing was one I had brought down from the old flat in London, to glance at in the train—a fairly zippy effort in the detective line called The Trail of Blood . She turned the pages with a nasty sneer.
“I can’t understand you liking nonsense of this—” she stopped suddenly. “Good gracious!”
“What’s the matter?”