Bingo lit a cigarette and frowned bleakly at the wallpaper.
'Bertie,' he said, 'the most frightful calamity has occurred. Unless something is done, and done right speedily, my social prestige is doomed, my self-respect will be obliterated, my name will be mud, and I shall not dare to show my face in the West End of London again.'
'My aunt!' I cried, deeply impressed.
'Exactly,' said young Bingo, with a hollow laugh. 'You have put it in a nutshell. The whole trouble is due to your blasted aunt.'
'Which blasted aunt? Specify, old thing. I have so many.'
'Mrs Travers. The one who runs that infernal paper.'
'Oh, no, dash it, old man,' I protested. 'She's the only decent aunt I've got. Jeeves, you will bear me out in this?'
'Such has always been my impression, I must confess, sir.'
'Well, get rid of it, then,' said young Bingo. 'The woman is a menace to society, a home-wrecker, and a pest. Do you know what's she's done? She's got Rosie to write an article for that rag of hers.'
'I know that.'