"I say, Wimsey—I do apologize for being so bloody rude. It's my filthy temper. Rotten bad form. Sheila's gone up to bed in tears, poor kid. All my fault. If you knew how this damnable situation gets on my nerves—though I know there's no excuse...."
"'S quite all right," said Wimsey. "Cheer up. It'll all come out in the wash."
"My wife—" began George again.
"She's damned fine, old man. But what it is, you both want a holiday."
"We do, badly. Well, never say die. I'll see Murbles, as you suggest, Wimsey."
Bunter received his master that evening with a prim smirk of satisfaction.
"Had a good day, Bunter?"
"Very gratifying indeed, I thank your lordship. The prints on the walking-stick are indubitably identical with those on the sheet of paper you gave me."
"They are, are they? That's something. I'll look at 'em to-morrow, Bunter—I've had a tiring evening."