“It was extremely kind of Lady Constance,” he hazarded, “to invite a perfect stranger to Blandings.”
“Oh, she’s always doing that sort of thing,” said his lordship. “It didn’t matter to her that she’d never seen you in her life. She had read your books, you know, and liked them: and when she heard that you were coming to England, she wrote to you.”
“I see,” said Psmith, relieved.
“Of course, it is all right as it has turned out,” said Lord Emsworth handsomely. “As I say, you’re different. And how you came to write that . . . that . . .”
“Bilge?” suggested Psmith.
“The very word I was about to employ, my dear fellow . . . No, no, I don’t mean that . . . I—I . . . Capital stuff, no doubt, capital stuff . . . but . . .”
“I understand.”
“Constance tried to make me read the things, but I couldn’t. I fell asleep over them.”
“I hope you rested well.”
“I—er—the fact is, I suppose they were beyond me. I couldn’t see any sense in the things.”