of humour, sir.”
I sat there, you might say stunned. When I thought how near I had come to offering the Wooster heart and hand to a girl capable of double-crossing a strong man’s honest love like that, I shivered.
“Are you cold, sir?”
“No, Jeeves. Just shuddering.”
“The occurrence, if I may take the liberty of saying so, sir, will perhaps lend colour to the view which I put forward yesterday that Miss Wickham, though in many respects a charming young lady—”
I raised the hand.
“Say no more, Jeeves,” I replied. “Love is dead.”
“Very good, sir.”
I brooded for a while.
“You’ve seen Sir Roderick this morning, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did he seem?”
“A trifle feverish,