When Bingo showed up next morning, I had had breakfast and was all ready for him. Jeeves shot him into the presence, and he sat down on the bed.
“Good morning, Bertie,” said young Bingo.
“Good morning, old thing,” I replied, courteously.
“Don’t go, Jeeves,” said young Bingo hollowly. “Wait.”
“Sir?”
“Remain. Stay. Cluster round. I shall need you.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bingo lit a cigarette and frowned bleakly at the wallpaper.
“Bertie,” he said, “the most frightful calamity has occurred. Unless something is done, and done right speedily, my social prestige is doomed, my self-respect will be obliterated, my name will be mud, and I shall not dare to show my face in the West-end of London again.”
“My aunt!” I cried, deeply impressed.
“Exactly,” said young Bingo, with a hollow laugh. “You have put it in a nutshell. The whole trouble is due to your blasted aunt.”
“Which blasted aunt? Specify, old thing. I have so many.”
“ Mrs. Travers. The one who runs that infernal paper.”
“Oh, no, dash it, old man,” I protested. “She’s the only decent aunt I’ve got. Jeeves, you will bear me out in this?”
“Such has always been my impression, I must confess, sir.”