“You are entirely spoiling my afternoon.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve got a book. What is it?”
Psmith picked up the brightly-jacketed volume and glanced at it.
“The Man With The Missing Toe. Comrade Threepwood lent it to me. He has a vast store of this type of narrative. I expect he will be wanting you to catalogue his library next.”
“Well, it looks interesting.”
“Ah, but what does it teach? How long do you propose to shut yourself up in that evil-smelling library?”
“An hour or so.”
“Then I shall rely on your society at the end of that period. We might go for another saunter on the lake.”
“All right. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished.”
Psmith watched her disappear into the house, then seated himself once more in the long chair under the cedar. A sense of loneliness oppressed him. He gave one look at The Man With The Missing Toe, and, having rejected the entertainment it offered, gave himself up to meditation.