The dance had just finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled off into the wings when a voice spoke from the darkness on my right.

“Pop!”

Old Blumenfield clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just been about to get the next line off his diaphragm, 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.”