up my book, and frowned again. The thing was one I had brought down from the old flat in London, to glance at in the train—a fairly zippy effort in the detective line called The Trail of Blood . She turned the pages with a nasty sneer.
“I can’t understand you liking nonsense of this—” she stopped suddenly.
“Good gracious!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Do you know Bertie Wooster?”
And then I saw that my name was scrawled right across the titlepage, and my heart did three back somersaults.
“Oh—er—well—that is to say—well, slightly.”
“He must be a perfect horror. I’m surprised that you can make a friend of him. Apart from anything else, the man is practically an imbecile.