“A bit unspiritual, eh?” said Psmith tolerantly. “A trifle earthy? So I thought, so I thought. One of these strong, hard men of affairs, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Shall we go and find Lord Emsworth, Mr. McTodd?” said Miss Peavey, dismissing the fermenting Baxter with a scornful look. “He wandered off just now. I suppose he is among his flowers. Flowers are very beautiful by night.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Psmith. “And also by day. When I am surrounded by flowers, a sort of divine peace floods over me, and the rough, harsh world seems far away. I feel soothed, tranquil. I sometimes think, Miss Peavey, that flowers must be the souls of little children who have died in their innocence.”
“What a beautiful thought, Mr. McTodd!” exclaimed Miss Peavey rapturously.
“Yes,” agreed Psmith. “Don’t pinch it. It’s copyright.”
The darkness swallowed them up. Lady Constance turned to the Efficient Baxter, who was brooding with furrowed brow.
“Charming, is he not?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I thought Mr. McTodd was charming.”
“Oh, quite.”