He came listlessly into the room, and I was pained to observe that a night’s rest had effected no improvement in the unhappy wreck’s appearance. Indeed, I should have said, if anything, that he was looking rather more moth-eaten than when I had seen him last. If you can visualize a bulldog which has just been kicked in the ribs and had its dinner sneaked by the cat, you will have Hildebrand Glossop as he now stood before me.
“Stap my vitals, Tuppy, old corpse,” I said, concerned, “you’re looking pretty blue round the rims.”
Jeeves slid from the presence in that tactful, eel-like way of his, and I motioned the remains to take a seat.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
He came to anchor on the bed, and for awhile sat picking at the coverlet in silence.
“I’ve been through hell, Bertie.”
“Through where?”
“Hell.”
“Oh, hell? And what took you there?”
Once more he became silent, staring before him with sombre eyes. Following his gaze, I saw that he was looking at an enlarged photograph of my Uncle Tom in some sort of Masonic uniform which stood on the mantelpiece. I’ve tried to reason with Aunt Dahlia about this photograph for years, placing before her two alternative suggestions: (a) To burn the beastly thing; or (b) if she must preserve it, to shove me in another room when I come to stay. But she declines to accede. She says it’s good for me. A useful discipline, she maintains, teaching me that there is a darker side to life and that we were not put into this world for pleasure only.