regard herself as put upon if she ever found out the game which poor old Rocky had been pulling on her.
“Good afternoon,” I managed to say.
“How do you do?” she said. “ Mr. Cohan?”
“Er—no.”
“ Mr. Fred Stone?”
“Not absolutely. As a matter of fact, my name’s Wooster—Bertie Wooster.”
She seemed disappointed. The fine old name of Wooster appeared to mean nothing in her life.
“Isn’t Rockmetteller home?” she said. “Where is he?”
She had me with the first shot. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t tell her that Rocky was down in the country, watching worms.
There was the faintest flutter of sound in the background. It was the respectful cough with which Jeeves announces that he is about to speak without having been