“From Miss Bassett, Jeeves?”
“From Miss Bassett, sir.”
At this point, Aunt Dahlia, who had taken one nibble at her whatever-it-was-on-toast and laid it down, begged us—a little fretfully, I thought—for heaven’s sake to cut out the cross-talk vaudeville stuff, as she had enough to bear already without having to listen to us doing our imitation of the Two Macs. Always willing to oblige, I dismissed Jeeves with a nod, and he flickered for a moment and was gone. Many a spectre would have been less slippy.
“But what,” I mused, toying with the envelope, “can this female be writing to me about?”
“Why not open the damn thing and see?”
“A very excellent idea,” I said, and did so.
“And if you are interested in my movements,” proceeded Aunt Dahlia, heading for the door, “I propose to go to my room, do some Yogi deep breathing, and try to forget.”
“Quite,” I said absently, skimming p. l. And then, as I turned over, a sharp howl broke from my lips, causing Aunt Dahlia to shy like a startled mustang.
“Don’t do it!” she exclaimed, quivering in every limb.
“Yes, but dash it——”