stopped in the middle of a sentence.
“Perhaps it will be better, Mr. Wooster,” she said, in a cold, even voice, “if you were to tell my girls some little story. What you say is, no doubt, extremely interesting, but perhaps a little—”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Mr. Wooster. “Story? Story?” He appeared completely distraught, poor young gentleman. “I wonder if you’ve heard the one about the stockbroker and the chorus-girl?”
“We will now sing the school song,” said Miss Tomlinson, rising like an iceberg.
I decided not to remain for the singing of the school song. It seemed probable to me that Mr. Wooster would shortly be requiring the car, so I made my way back to the stable-yard, to be in readiness.
I had not long to wait. In a very few moments Mr. Wooster came tottering up. Mr. Wooster’s is not one of those inscrutable faces which it is impossible to read. On the contrary, it is a limpid pool in which is mirrored each passing emotion. I could read it now like a book, and his first words were very much on the lines I had anticipated.
“Jeeves,” he said, hoarsely, “is that damned car mended yet?”
“Just this moment, sir. I have been working on it assiduously.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, let’s go!”
“But I understood that you were to address the young ladies, sir.”
“Oh, I’ve done that!” responded Mr. Wooster, blinking twice with extraordinary rapidity. “Yes, I’ve done that.”
“It was a success, I hope, sir?”
“Oh, yes.