“How can I, when the sight of him makes me feel like a piece of chewed blotting-paper? When he looks at me over that nose, my morale goes blue at the roots and I am back at school again. It’s persecution, Bertie. And the next thing that’ll happen is that my proprietor will spot one of those articles, assume with perfect justice that, if I can print that sort of thing, I must be going off my chump, and fire me.”
I pondered. It was a tough problem.
“How would it be—?” I said.
“That’s no good.”
“Only a suggestion, laddie,” I said.
“Jeeves,” I said, when I got home, “surge round!”
“Sir?”
“Burnish the old bean. I have a case that calls for one of your best efforts. Have you ever heard of a Miss Gwendolen Moon?”
“Authoress of ‘ Autumn Leaves ,’ ‘ ’Twas on an English June ,’ and other works. Yes, sir.”
“Great Scott, Jeeves, you seem to know everything.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Sipperley is in love with Miss Moon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But fears to speak.”
“It is often the way, sir.”
“Deeming himself unworthy.”