"If your trouble is," said Psmith, "that you fear that you may be in unworthy company—"
"Don't be an ass."
"—Dismiss it. I am playing."
Mike stared.
"You're what? You?"
"I," said Psmith, breathing on a coat button, and polishing it with his handkerchief.
"Can you play cricket?"
"You have discovered," said Psmith, "my secret sorrow."
"You're rotting."
"You wrong me, Comrade Jackson."