“And now it’s nearly dinner-time, you say? All right. I am in no mood for dinner, but I suppose you had better lay out the clothes.”
“It will not be necessary, sir. The company will not be dressing tonight. A cold collation has been set out in the dining-room.”
“Why’s that?”
“It was Mrs. Travers’s wish that this should be done in order to minimize the work for the staff, who are attending a dance at Sir Percival Stretchley-Budd’s residence tonight.”
“Of course, yes. I remember. My Cousin Angela told me. Tonight’s the night, what? You going, Jeeves?”
“No, sir. I am not very fond of this form of entertainment in the rural districts, sir.”
“I know what you mean. These country binges are all the same. A piano, one fiddle, and a floor like sandpaper. Is Anatole going? Angela hinted not.”
“Miss Angela was correct, sir. Monsieur Anatole is in bed.”
“Temperamental blighters, these Frenchmen.”
“Yes, sir.”