“I fear I have no plan which I could advance with any confidence on the spur of the moment, sir.”
“You want time to think, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take it, Jeeves, take it. You may feel brainier after a night’s sleep. What is it Shakespeare calls sleep, Jeeves?”
“Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, sir.”
“Exactly. Well, there you are, then.”
You know, there’s nothing like sleeping on a thing. Scarcely had I woken up next morning when I discovered that, while I slept, I had got the whole binge neatly into order and worked out a plan Foch might have been proud of. I rang the bell for Jeeves to bring me my tea.
I rang again. But it must have been five minutes before the man showed up with the steaming.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, when I reproached him. “I did not hear the bell. I was in the sitting-room, sir.”
“Ah?” I said, sucking down a spot of the mixture. “Doing this and that, no doubt?”
“Dusting your new vase, sir.”
My heart warmed to the fellow. If there’s one person I like, it’s the chap who is not too proud to admit it when he’s in the wrong. No actual statement to that effect had passed his lips, of course, but we Woosters can read between the lines. I could see that he was learning to love the vase.
“How does it look?”