“I don’t—What I mean to say—” began Mike.
“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.”