ou're all wrong about that mess jacket, Jeeves."

"These things are matters of opinion, sir."

"When I wore it at the Casino at Cannes, beautiful women nudged one
another and whispered: 'Who is he?'"

"The code at Continental casinos is notoriously lax, sir."

"And when I described it to Pongo last night, he was fascinated."

"Indeed, sir?"

"So were all the rest of those present. One and all admitted that I had
got hold of a good thing. Not a dissentient voice."

"Indeed, sir?"

"I am convinced that you will eventually learn to love this mess-jacket,
Jeeves."

"I fear not, sir."

I gave it up. It is never any use trying to reason with Jeeves on these
occasions. "Pig-headed" is the word that springs to the lips. One sighs
and passes on.

"Well, anyway, returning to the agenda, I can't go down to Brinkley Court
or anywhere else yet awhile. That's final. I'll tell you what, Jeeves.
Give me form and pencil, and I'll wire her that I'll be with her some
time next week or the week after. Dash it all, she ought to be able to
hold out without me for a few days. It only requires will power."

"Yes, sir."

"Right ho, then. I'll wire 'Expect me tomorrow fortnight' or words to
some such effect. That ought to meet the case. Then if you will toddle
round the corner and send it off, that will be that."

"Very good, sir."

And so the long day wore on till it was time for me to dress for Pongo's
party.

Pongo had assured me, while chatting of the affair on the previous night,
that this birthday binge of his was to be on a scale calculated to
stagger humanity, and I must say I have participated in less fruity
functions. It was well after four when I got home, and by that time I was
about ready to turn in. I can just remember groping for the bed and
crawling into it, and it seemed to me that the lemon had scarcely touched
the pillow before I was aroused by the sound of the door opening.

I was barely ticking over, but I contrived to raise an eyelid.

"Is that my tea, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. It is Mrs. Travers."

And a moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and the
relative had crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own steam.

-4-

It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his
flesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he is
nevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit is due. And
if you have followed these memoirs