“How do you know they won’t? Better men than I have split their trousers. General Bosher was a D.S.O., with a fine record of service on the north-western frontier of India, and his trousers split. I shall be a mockery and a scorn. I know it. And you, fully cognizant of what I am in for, come babbling about good news. What news could possibly be good to me at this moment except the information that bubonic plague had broken out among the scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School, and that they were all confined to their beds with spots?”
The moment had come for me to speak. I laid a hand gently on his shoulder. He brushed it off. I laid it on again. He brushed it off once more. I was endeavouring to lay it on for the third time, when he moved aside and desired, with a certain petulance, to be informed if I thought I was a ruddy osteopath.
I found his manner trying, but one has to make allowances. I was telling myself that I should be seeing a very different Gussie after lunch.
“When I said I had good news, old man, I meant about Madeline Bassett.”
The febrile gleam died out of his eyes, to be replaced by a look of infinite sadness.
“You can’t have good news about her. I’ve dished myself there completely.”
“Not at all. I am convinced that if you take another whack at her, all will be well.”
And, keeping it snappy, I related what had passed between the Bassett and myself on the previous night.
“So all you have to do is play a return date, and you cannot fail to swing the voting. You are her dream man.”
He shook his head.