She had had her back to me, and at the sound of my voice she executed a sort of leap or bound, not unlike a barefoot dancer who steps on a tin-tack half-way through the Vision of Salome. She came to earth and goggled at me in a rather goofy manner. A large, stout female with a reddish face.
'Hope I didn't startle you,' I said.
'Who are you?'
'My name's Wooster. I'm a pal of your nephew, Oliver.'
Her breathing had become more regular.
'Oh?' she said. 'When I heard your voice I thought you were someone else.'
'No, that's who I am. I came up here to tell you about Oliver.'
'What about him?'
I hesitated. Now that we were approaching what you might call the nub, or crux, of the situation, a good deal of my breezy confidence seemed to have slipped from me.
'Well, it's rather a painful tale, I must warn you.'