She seated herself by my side, and with a sort of gruesome playfulness jerked the gasper out of the holder and heaved it out of the door.

“You’re always smoking,” she said, a lot too much like a lovingly chiding young bride for my comfort. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s so bad for you. And you ought not to be sitting out here without your light overcoat. You want someone to look after you.”

“I’ve got Jeeves.”

She frowned a bit.

“I don’t like him,” she said.

“Eh? Why not?”

“I don’t know. I wish you would get rid of him.”