was letting myself in for, not even a nephew’s devotion would have kept me from giving her the raspberry. A deuce of a job it had been, taxing the physique to the utmost. I don’t wonder now that all these author blokes have bald heads and faces like birds who have suffered.
“Jeeves,” I said, when he came back, “you don’t read a paper called Milady’s Boudoir by any chance, do you?”
“No, sir. The periodical has not come to my notice.”
“Well, spring sixpence on it next week, because this article will appear in it. Wooster on the well-dressed man, don’t you know.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes, indeed, Jeeves. I’ve rather extended myself over this little bijou. There’s a bit about socks that I think you will like.”
He took the manuscript, brooded over it, and smiled a gentle, approving smile.
“The sock passage is quite in the proper vein, sir,” he said.
“Well expressed, what?”
“Extremely, sir.”
I watched him narrowly as he read on, and, as I was expecting, what you might call the love-light suddenly died out of his eyes. I braced myself for an unpleasant scene.
“Come to the bit about soft silk shirts for evening wear?” I asked, carelessly.
“Yes, sir,” said Jeeves, in a low, cold voice, as if he had been bitten in the leg by a personal friend. “And if I may be