open to
good impressions, though he was not much in the way of practising
them; and Gerald's address, which, in the first place, filled him with
awe, moved him afterwards with passing thrills of compunction, mingled
with a kind of delight at the idea of getting free. When his admonitor
said "Go," Wodehouse made a step towards the door, and for an instant
felt the exhilaration of enfranchisement. But the next moment his eye
sought Jack Wentworth's face, which was so superbly careless, so
indifferent to him and his intentions, and the vagabond's soul
succumbed with a canine fidelity to his master. Had Jack shown any
interest, any excitement in the matter, his sway might have been
doubtful; but in proportion to the sense of his own insignificance and
unimportance Wodehouse's allegiance confirmed itself. He looked
wistfully towards the hero of his imagination, as that skilful
personage selected his cigar. He would rather have been kicked again
than left alone, and left to himself. After all, it was very true what
Jack Wentworth said. They might be a bad lot, but they were gentlemen
(according to Wodehouse's understanding of the word) with whom he had
been associated; and beatific visions of peers and baronets and
honourables, amongst whom his own shabby person had figured, without
feeling much below the common level, crossed his mind with all the
sweetness which belongs to a past state of affairs. Yet it was still
in his power to recall these vanishing glories. Now that he was rich,
and could "cut a figure" among the objects of his admiration, was that
brilliant world to be closed upon him for ever by his own obstinacy?
As these thoughts rushed through his mind, little Rosa's beauty and
natural grace came suddenly to his recollection. Nobody need know how
he had got his pretty wife, and a pretty wife she would be--a creature
whom nobody could help admiring. Wodehouse looked wistfully at Jack
Wentworth, who took no notice of him as he chose his cigar. Jack was
not only the ideal of the clumsy rogue, but he was the doorkeeper of
that paradise of disreputable nobles and ruined gentlemen which was
Wodehouse's idea of good society; and from all this was he about to be
banished? Jack Wentworth selected his cigar with as much care as if
his happiness depended on it, and took no notice of the stealthy
glances thrown at him. "I'll get a light in the hall," said Jack;
"good evening to you," and he was actually going away.

"Look her