Silence fell upon him for a space, and Psmith was well content to have it so. He had no specific need of Freddie’s prattle to help him enjoy the pleasant sunshine and the scent of Angus McAllister’s innumerable flowers. Presently, however, his companion was off again. But now there was a different note in his voice. Alarm seemed to have given place to something which appeared to be embarrassment. He coughed several times, and his neatly-shod feet, writhing in self-conscious circles, scraped against the wall.
“I say!”
“You have our ear once more, Comrade Threepwood,” said Psmith politely.
“I say, what I really came out here to talk about was something else. I say, are you really a pal of Miss Halliday’s?”
“Assuredly. Why?”
“I say!” A rosy blush mantled the Hon. Freddie’s young cheek. “I say, I wish you would put in a word for me, then.”
“Put in a word for you?”
Freddie gulped.
“I love her, dash it!”
“A noble emotion,” said Psmith courteously. “When did you feel it coming on?”