Well, I wasn't going to have any of that sort of thing, by Jove! I'd seen so many cases of fellows who had become perfect slaves to their valets. I remember poor old Aubrey Fothergill telling me—with absolute tears in his eyes, poor chap!—one night at the club, that he had been compelled to give up a favourite pair of brown shoes simply because Meekyn, his man, disapproved of them. You have to keep these fellows in their place, don't you know. You have to work the good old iron-hand-in-the-velvet-glove wheeze. If you give them a what's-its-name, they take a thingummy.
'Don't you like this suit, Jeeves?' I said coldly.
'Oh, yes, sir.'
'Well, what don't you like about it?'
'It is a very nice suit, sir.'
'Well, what's wrong with it? Out with it, dash it!'
'If I might make the suggestion, sir, a simple brown or blue, with a hint of some quiet twill—'
'What absolute rot!'
'Very good, sir.'
'Perfectly blithering, my dear man!'