'Jeeves,' said Mr Wooster, when I brought him his whisky and siphon one night about a week later, 'this is dashed jolly.'
'Sir?'
'Jolly. Cosy and pleasant, you know. I mean, looking at the clock and wondering if you're going to be late with the good old drinks, and then you coming in with the tray always on time, never a minute late, and shoving it down on the table and biffing off, and the next night coming in and shoving it down and biffing off, and the next night—I mean, gives you a sort of safe, restful feeling. Soothing! That's the word. Soothing!'
'Yes, sir. Oh, by the way, sir—'
'Well?'
'Have you succeeded in finding a suitable house yet, sir?'
'House? What do you mean, house?'
'I understood, sir, that it was your intention to give up the flat and take a house of sufficient size to enable you to have your sister, Mrs Scholfield, and her three young ladies to live with you.'
Mr Wooster shuddered strongly.