And she scampered off. An engaging child. Full of spirits.
She had hardly gone when there was an agitated noise, and round the corner came Mr. Wooster. Perturbed. Deeply so.
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“Start the car!”
“Sir?”
“I’m off!”
“Sir?”
Mr. Wooster danced a few steps.
“Don’t stand there saying ‘sir?’ I tell you I’m off. Bally off! There’s not a moment to waste. The situation’s desperate. Dash it, Jeeves, do you know what’s happened? The Tomlinson female has just sprung it on me that I’m expected to make a speech to the girls! Got to stand up there in front of the whole dashed collection and talk! I can just see myself! Get that car going, Jeeves, dash it all. A little speed, a little speed!”
“Impossible, I fear, sir. The car is out of order.”
Mr. Wooster gaped at me. Very glassily he gaped.
“Out of order!”
“Yes, sir. Something is wrong. Trivial, perhaps, but possibly a matter of some little time to repair.” Mr. Wooster being one of those easygoing young gentlemen who’ll drive a car but never take the trouble to learn anything about its mechanism, I felt justified in becoming technical. “I think it is the differential gear, sir. Either that or the exhaust.”