“Very good, sir.”
“I’m glad you think so. To me the outlook seems black and scaly. You know what those two lads are!”
“Very high-spirited young gentlemen, sir.”
“Blisters, Jeeves. Undeniable blisters. It’s a bit thick!”
“Would there be anything further, sir?”
At that, I’m bound to say, I drew myself up a trifle haughtily. We Woosters freeze like the dickens when we seek sympathy and meet with cold reserve. I knew what was up, of course. For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington Arcade. Some dashed brainy cove, probably the chap who invented those coloured cigarette-cases, had recently had the rather topping idea of putting out a line of spats on the same system. I mean to say, instead of the ordinary grey and white, you can now get them in your regimental or school colours. And, believe me, it would have taken a chappie of stronger fibre than I am to resist the pair of Old Etonian spats which had smiled up at me from inside the window. I was inside the shop, opening negotiations, before it had even occurred to me that Jeeves might not approve. And I must say he had taken the thing a bit hardly. The fact of the matter is, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative. Hide-bound, if you know what I mean, and an enemy to Progress.
“Nothing further, Jeeves,” I said, with quiet dignity.
“Very good, sir.”
He gave one frosty look at the spats and biffed off. Dash him!
* * * * *