“Yes, sir.”
“It’s pretty rotten, you know.”
“Most disturbing, sir.”
“And there’s another thing: What are we to do about Mr. Todd? We’ve got to get him up here as soon as ever we can. When you have brought the tea you had better go out and send him a telegram, telling him to come up by the next train.”
“I have already done so, sir. I took the liberty of writing the message and dispatching it by the lift attendant.”
“By Jove, you think of everything, Jeeves!”
“Thank you, sir. A little buttered toast with the tea? Just so, sir. Thank you.”
I went back to the sitting room. She hadn’t moved an inch. She was still bolt upright on the edge of her chair, gripping her umbrella like a hammer-thrower. She gave me another of those looks as I came in. There was no doubt about it; for some reason she had taken a dislike to me. I suppose because I wasn’t George M. Cohan. It was a bit hard on a chap.
“This is a surprise, what?” I said, after about five minutes’ restful silence, trying to crank the conversation up again.
“What is a surprise?”
“Your coming here, don’t you know, and so on.”
She raised her eyebrows and drank me in a bit more through her glasses.
“Why is it surprising that I should visit my only nephew?” she said.
Put like that, of course, it did seem reasonable.