“Don’t mention it, old man,” I responded courteously.
For the first time since the bushes had begun to pour forth Glossops, Bertram Wooster could be said to have breathed freely. I don’t say I actually came out from behind the bench, but I did let go of it, and with something of the relief which those three chaps in the Old Testament must have experienced after sliding out of the burning fiery furnace, I even groped tentatively for my cigarette case.
The next moment a sudden snort made me take my fingers off it as if it had bitten me. I was distressed to note in the old friend a return of the recent frenzy.
“What the hell did you mean by telling her that I used to be covered with ink when I was a kid?”
“My dear Tuppy——”
“I was almost finickingly careful about my personal cleanliness as a boy. You could have eaten your dinner off me.”
“Quite. But——”
“And all that stuff about having no soul. I’m crawling with soul. And being looked on as an outsider at the Drones——”
“But, my dear old chap, I explained that. It was all part of my ruse or scheme.”
“It was, was it? Well, in future do me a favour and leave me out of your foul ruses.”