“I have no desire to work on that line, as you put it,” he said, stiffly. “If you do not require my paper on the Elizabethan dramatists I shall no doubt be able to find another editor whose tastes are more in accord with my work.”
“The right spirit absolutely, Waterbury,” said Sippy, cordially. “Never give in. Perseverance brings home the gravy. If you get an article accepted, send another article to that editor. If you get an article refused, send that article to another editor. Carry on, Waterbury. I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest.”
“Thank you,” said the bloke Waterbury, bitterly. “This expert advice should prove most useful.”
He biffed off, banging the door behind him, and I turned to Sippy, who was swerving about the room like an exuberant snipe.
“Sippy—”
“Eh? What? Can’t stop, Bertie, can’t stop. Only looked in to tell you the news. I’m taking Gwendolen to tea at the Carlton. I’m the happiest man in the world, Bertie. Engaged, you know. Betrothed. All washed up and signed on the dotted line. Wedding, June the first, at eleven a.m. sharp, at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square. Presents should be delivered before the end of May.”
“But, Sippy! Come to roost for a second. How did this happen? I thought—”
“Well, it’s a long story. Much too long to tell you now. Ask Jeeves. He came along with me, and is waiting outside. But when I found her bending over me, weeping, I knew that a word from me was all that was needed. I took her little hand in mine and—”
“What do you mean, bending over you? Where?”