“Well, look here, between ourselves,” said Freddie earnestly, “the whole trouble all along has been that she thought I hadn’t any money to get married on. She didn’t actually say so in so many words, but you know how it is with women—you can read between the lines, if you know what I mean. So now everything’s going to be all right. I shall simply go to her and say, ‘Well, what about it?’ and—well, and so on, don’t you know?”
Psmith considered the point gravely.
“I see your reasoning, Comrade Threepwood,” he said. “I can detect but one flaw in it.”
“Flaw? What flaw?”
“The fact that Miss Halliday is going to marry me.”
The Hon. Freddie’s jaw dropped. His prominent eyes became more prawn-like.
“What!”
Psmith patted his shoulder commiseratingly.
“Be a man, Comrade Threepwood, and bite the bullet. These things will happen to the best of us. Some day you will be thankful that this has occurred. Purged in the holocaust of a mighty love, you will wander out into the sunset, a finer, broader man. . . . And now I must reluctantly tear myself away. I have an important appointment.” He patted his shoulder once more. “If you would care to be a page at the wedding, Comrade Threepwood, I can honestly say that there is no one whom I would rather have in that capacity.”
And with a stately gesture of farewell, Psmith passed out on to the terrace to join Eve.