I’m fond of Mr. Wooster, and I admit I came very near to melting as I looked at his face. He was staring at me in a sort of dumb despair that would have touched anybody.
“Then I’m sunk! Or”—a slight gleam of hope flickered across his drawn features—“do you think I could sneak out and leg it across country, Jeeves?”
“Too late, I fear, sir.” I indicated with a slight gesture the approaching figure of Miss Tomlinson, who was advancing with a serene determination in his immediate rear.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Wooster.”
He smiled a sickly smile.
“Yes—er—here I am!”
“We are all waiting for you in the large schoolroom.”
“But, I say, look here,” said Mr. Wooster, “I—I don’t know a bit what to talk about.”
“Why, anything, Mr. Wooster. Anything that comes into your head. Be bright,” said Miss Tomlinson. “Bright and amusing.”
“Oh, bright and amusing?”
“Possibly tell them a few entertaining stories. But, at the same time, do not neglect the graver note. Remember that my girls are on the threshold of life, and will be eager to hear something brave and helpful and stimulating—something which they can remember in after years. But, of course, you know the sort of thing, Mr. Wooster. Come. The young people are waiting.”