Sometimes when Jeeves has brought in my morning tea and shoved it on the table beside my bed, he drifts silently from the room and leaves me to go to it: at other times he sort of shimmies respectfully in the middle of the carpet, and then I know that he wants a word or two. On the day after I had got back from Goodwood I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, when I noticed that he was still in my midst.

“Oh, hallo,” I said. “Yes?”

“ Mr. Little called earlier in the morning, sir.”

“Oh, by Jove, what? Did he tell you about what happened?”

“Yes, sir. It was in connection with that that he wished to see you. He proposes to retire to the country and remain there for some little while.”

“Dashed sensible.”