I found the old boy in a mood you could only describe as melting. He had a copy of the book on the table beside him and kept turning the pages in the intervals of dealing with things in aspic and what not.
“Mr. Wooster,” he said, swallowing a chunk of trout, “I wish to congratulate you. I wish to thank you. You go from strength to strength. I have read ‘All For Love’; I have read ‘Only a Factory Girl’; I know ‘Madcap Myrtle’ by heart. But this—this is your bravest and best. It tears the heartstrings.”
“Yes?”
“Indeed yes! I have read it three times since you most kindly sent me the volume—I wish to thank you once more for the charming inscription—and I think I may say that I am a better, sweeter, deeper man. I am full of human charity and kindliness toward my species.”
“No, really?”
“Indeed, indeed I am.”
“Towards the whole species?”
“Towards the whole species.”
“Even young Bingo?” I said, trying him pretty high.
“My nephew? Richard?” He looked a bit thoughtful, but stuck it like a man and refused to hedge. “Yes, even towards Richard. Well ... that is to say ... perhaps ... yes, even towards Richard.”