been made by me, alone and unaided, and, though I freely admit that it had turned out a good deal of a bloomer, still the fact remains that I had shown zeal and enterprise. Consequently I received him with a bit of hauteur when he blew in. Slightly cold. A trifle frosty.
“Yes, Jeeves?” I said. “You wished to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say on, Jeeves,” I said.
“Thank you, sir. What I desired to say, sir, was this: I attended a performance at the local cinema last night.”
I raised the eyebrows. I was surprised at the man. With life in the home so frightfully tense and the young master up against it to such a fearful extent, I disapproved of him coming toddling in and prattling about his amusements.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” I said in rather a nasty manner.
“Yes, sir, thank you. The management was presenting a super-super-film in seven reels, dealing with life in the wilder and more feverish strata of New York Society, featuring Bertha Blevitch, Orlando Murphy and Baby Bobbie. I found it most entertaining, sir.”
“That’s good,” I said. “And if you have a nice time this morning on the sands with your spade and bucket, you will come and tell me all about it, won’t you? I have so little on my mind just now that it’s a treat to hear all about your happy holiday.”
Satirical, if you see what I mean. Sarcastic. Almost bitter, as a matter of fact, if you come right down to it.
“The title of the film was Tiny Hands , sir. And the father and mother of the character played by Baby Bobbie had unfortunately drifted apart—”