through. Is one a serf or isn’t one? That’s what it all boils down to. Having made my point, I changed the subject.
“Well, that’s that,” I said. “We now approach another topic. Do you know any housemaids, Jeeves?”
“Housemaids, sir?”
“Come, come, Jeeves, you know what housemaids are. Females who get housemaid’s knee.”
“Are you requiring a housemaid, sir?”
“No, but Mr. Little is. I met him at the club a couple of days ago, and he told me that Mrs. Little is offering rich rewards to anybody who will find her one guaranteed to go light on the china.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes. The one now in office apparently runs through the objets d’art like a typhoon, simoom, or sirocco. So if you know any—”
“I know a great many, sir. Some intimately, others mere acquaintances.”
“Well, start digging round among the old pals. And now the hat, the stick, and other necessaries. I must be getting along and handing in this article.”
The offices of Milady’s Boudoir were in one of those rummy streets in the Covent Garden neighbourhood; and I had just got to the door, after wading through a deep topdressing of old cabbages and tomatoes, when who should come out but Mrs. Little. She greeted me with the warmth due to the old family friend, in spite of the fact that I hadn’t been round to the