P G Wodehouse - Much Obliged, Jeeves

The brandy seemed to have restored Jeeves. He spoke now with his customary calm.

'I believe his political views were very far to the left at the time when he was in your employment. They changed when he became a man of property.'

'A man of property, is he?'

'An uncle of his in the grocery business died and left him a house and a comfortable sum of money.'

'I suppose it often happens that the views of fellows like Bingley change when they come into money.'

'Very frequently. They regard the coming revolution from a different standpoint.'

'I see what you mean. They don't want to be chased down Park Lane with dripping knives themselves. Is he still a gentleman's gentleman?'

'He has retired. He lives a life of leisure in Market Snodsbury.'

'Market Snodsbury? That's funny.'

'Sir?'

'Odd, I mean, that he should live in Market Snodsbury.'

'Many people do, sir.'

'But when that's just where we're going. Sort of a coincidence. His uncle's house is there, I suppose.'

'One presumes so.'

'We may be seeing something of him.' 'I hope not sir. I disapprove of Bingley. He is dishonest. Not a man to be trusted.'

'What makes you think so?'

'It is merely a feeling.'

Well, it was no skin off my nose. A busy man like myself hasn't time to go about trusting Bingley. All I demanded of Bingley was that if our paths should cross he would remain sober and keep away from carving knives. Live and let live is the Wooster motto. I finished my whisky and soda and rose.

'Well,' I said, 'there's one thing. Holding the strong Conservative views he does, it ought to be a snip to get him to vote for Ginger. And now we'd better be getting along. Ginger is driving us down in his car, and I don't know when he'll be coming to fetch us. Thanks for your princely hospitality, Jeeves. You have brought new life to the exhausted frame.' 'Not at all, sir.'

CHAPTER Five

Ginger turned up in due course, and on going out to the car I saw that he had managed to get hold of Magnolia all right, for there was a girl sitting in the back and when he introduced us his 'Mr. Wooster, Miss Glendennon' told the story.

Nice girl she seemed to me and quite nice-looking. I wouldn't say hers was the face that launched a thousand ships, to quote one of Jeeves's gags, and this was probably all to the good, for Florence, I imagine, would have had a word to say if Ginger had returned from his travels with something in tow calculated to bring a whistle to the lips of all beholders. A man in his position has to exercise considerable care in his choice of secretaries, ruling out anything that might have done well in the latest Miss America contest. But you could certainly describe her appearance as pleasant. She gave me the impression of being one of those quiet, sympathetic girls whom you could tell your troubles to in the certain confidence of having your hand held and your head patted. The sort of girl you, could go to and say 'I say, I've just committed a murder and it's worrying me rather', and she would reply 'There, there, try not to think about it, it's the sort of thing that might happen to anybody'. The little mother, in short, with the added attraction of being tops at shorthand and typing. I could have wished Ginger's affairs in no better hands.

Jeeves brought out the suitcases and stowed them away, and Ginger asked me to do the driving, as he had a lot of business to go into with his new secretary, giving her the low-down on her duties, I suppose. We set out, accordingly, with me and Jeeves in front, and about the journey down there is nothing of interest to report. I was in merry mood throughout, as always when about to get another whack at Anatole's cooking. Jeeves presumably felt the same, for he, like me, is one of that master skillet-wielder's warmest admirers, but whereas I sang a good deal as we buzzed along, he maintained, as is his custom, the silent reserve of a stuffed frog, never joining in the chorus, though cordially invited to.

Arriving at journey's end, we all separated. Jeeves attended to the luggage, Ginger took Magnolia Glendennon off to his office, and I made my way to the drawing-room, which I found empty. There seemed to be nobody about, as so often happens when you fetch up at a country house lateish in the afternoon. No sign of Aunt Dahlia, nor of Uncle Tom, her mate. I toyed with the idea of going to see if the latter was in the room where he keeps his collection of old silver, but thought better not. Uncle Tom is one of those enthusiastic collectors who, if in a position to grab you, detain you for hours, talking about sconces, foliation, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, and one wants as little of that sort of thing as can be managed.