me what the stuff had tasted like. In many ways the ideal existence.
I generally managed to fit it in with my engagements to go down and watch him tackle his afternoon dose, for we Woosters are as fond of a laugh as anyone.
And it was while I was enjoying the performance in the middle of the second week that I heard my name spoken.
And there was Aunt Dahlia.
“Hullo!” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came down yesterday with Tom.”
“Is Tom taking the cure?” asked Uncle George, looking up hopefully from the hell-brew.
“Yes.”
“Are you taking the cure?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said Uncle George, looking happier than I had seen him for days. He swallowed the last drops, and then, the programme calling for a brisk walk before his massage, left us.
“I shouldn’t have thought you would have been able to get away from the paper,” I said.
“I say,” I went on, struck by a pleasing idea. “It hasn’t bust up, has it?”
“Bust up? I should say not. A pal of mine is looking after it for me while I’m here. It’s right on its feet now. Tom has given me a couple of thousand and says there’s more if I want it, and I’ve been able to buy the serial rights of Lady Bablockhythe’s Frank Recollections of a Long Life .