“Housemaids, sir?”
“Come, come, Jeeves, you know what housemaids are. Females who get housemaid’s knee.”
“Are you requiring a housemaid, sir?”
“No, but Mr. Little is. I met him at the club a couple of days ago, and he told me that Mrs. Little is offering rich rewards to anybody who will find her one guaranteed to go light on the china.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes. The one now in office apparently runs through the objets d’art like a typhoon, simoom, or sirocco. So if you know any—”
“I know a great many, sir. Some intimately, others mere acquaintances.”
“Well, start digging round among the old pals. And now the hat, the stick, and other necessaries. I must be getting along and handing in this article.”
The offices of Milady’s Boudoir were in one of those rummy streets in the Covent Garden neighbourhood; and I had just got to the door, after wading through a deep topdressing of old cabbages and tomatoes, when who should come out but Mrs. Little. She greeted me with the warmth due to the old family friend, in spite of the fact that I hadn’t been round to the house for a goodish while.
“Whatever are you doing in these parts, Bertie? I thought you never came east of Leicester Square.”
“I’ve come to deliver an article of sorts which my Aunt Dahlia asked me to write. She edits a species of journal up those stairs. Milady’s Boudoir .”