“Too bad,” I said.
“Although at heart they loved each other still, sir.”
“Did they really? I’m glad you told me that.”
“And so matters went on, sir, till came a day when—”
“Jeeves,” I said, fixing him with a dashed unpleasant eye, “what the dickens do you think you’re talking about? Do you suppose that, with this infernal child landed on me and the peace of the home practically shattered into a million bits, I want to hear—”
“I beg your pardon, sir I would not have mentioned this cinema performance were it not for the fact that it gave me an idea, sir.”
“An idea!”
“An idea that will, I fancy, sir, prove of value in straightening out the matrimonial future of Mr. Bullivant. To which end, if you recollect, sir, you desired me to—”
I snorted with remorse. “Jeeves,” I said, “I wronged you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Yes, I did. I wronged you. I had a notion that you had given yourself up entirely to the pleasures of the seaside and had chucked that business altogether. I might have known better. Tell me all, Jeeves.”
He bowed in a gratified manner. I beamed. And, while we didn’t actually fall on each other’s necks, we gave each other to understand that all was well once more.
“In this super-super-film, Tiny Hands , sir,” said Jeeves, “the parents of the child had, as I say, drifted apart.”