I hadn’t expected Freddie to sing with joy when he saw me looming up with child complete, but I did think he might have showed a little more manly fortitude, a little more of the old British bulldog spirit. He leaped up when we came in, glared at the kid and clutched his head. He didn’t speak for a long time, but, to make up for it, when he began he did not leave off for a long time.
“Well,” he said, when he had finished the body of his remarks, “say something! Heavens, man, why don’t you say something?”
“If you’ll give me a chance, I will,” I said, and shot the bad news.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked. And it would be idle to deny that his manner was peevish.
“What can we do about it?”
“We? What do you mean, we? I’m not going to spend my time taking turns as a nursemaid to this excrescence. I’m going back to London.”
“Freddie!” I cried. “Freddie, old man!” My voice shook. “Would you desert a pal at a time like this?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Freddie,” I said, “you’ve got to stand by me. You must. Do you realise that this child has to be undressed, and bathed, and dressed again? You wouldn’t leave me to do all that single-handed?”
“Jeeves can help you.”
“No, sir,” said Jeeves, who had just rolled in with lunch, “I must, I fear, disassociate myself completely from the matter.” He spoke respectfully but firmly. “I have had little or no experience with children.”
“Now’s the time to start,” I urged.