“All right, then. Carry on.”
“I grant Miss Wickham the possession of all these desirable qualities, sir. Nevertheless, considered as a matrimonial prospect for a gentleman of your description, I cannot look upon her as suitable. In my opinion, Miss Wickham lacks seriousness, sir. She is too volatile and frivolous. To qualify as Miss Wickham’s husband, a gentleman would need to possess a commanding personality and considerable strength of character.”
“Exactly!”
“I would always hesitate to recommend as a life’s companion a young lady with quite such a vivid shade of red hair. Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.”
I eyed the blighter squarely.
“Jeeves,” I said, “you’re talking rot.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Absolute drivel.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Pure mashed potatoes.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Very good, sir—I mean very good, Jeeves, that will be all,” I said.
And I drank a modicum of tea with a good deal of hauteur.
It isn’t often that I find myself able to prove Jeeves in the wrong, but by dinnertime that night I was in a position to do so, and I did it without delay.