“What a coincidence! I have just promised to write an article for her, too.”
“Don’t you do it,” I said, earnestly. “You’ve simply no notion what a ghastly labour—Oh, but, of course, I was forgetting. You’re used to it, what?”
Silly of me to have talked like that. Young Bingo Little, if you remember, had married the famous female novelist, Rosie M. Banks, author of some of the most pronounced and widely-read tripe ever put on the market. Naturally a mere article would be pie for her.
“No, I don’t think it will give me much trouble,” she said. “Your aunt has suggested a most delightful subject.”
“That’s good. By the way, I spoke to my man Jeeves about getting you a housemaid. He knows all the hummers.”
“Thank you so much. Oh, are you doing anything tomorrow night?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then do come and dine with us. Your aunt is coming, and hopes to bring your uncle. I am looking forward to meeting him.”
“Thanks. Delighted.”
I meant it, too. The Little household may be weak on housemaids, but it is right there when it comes to cooks. Somewhere or other some time ago Bingo’s missus managed to dig up a Frenchman of the most extraordinary vim and skill. A most amazing Johnnie who dishes a wicked ragoût. Old Bingo has put on at least ten pounds in weight since this fellow Anatole arrived in the home.
“At eight, then.”