About half-past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the sitting room.

“How does he look, Jeeves?”

“Sir?”

“What does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?”

“It is hardly my place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities of your friends.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and whatnot?”

“Not noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil.”

“That’s rum!”

“Sir?”