“I don’t like him,” said Aunt Agatha.
“But I can’t. I mean—why, I couldn’t carry on for a day without Jeeves.”
“You will have to,” said Honoria. “I don’t like him at all.”
“I don’t like him at all,” said Aunt Agatha. “I never did.”
Ghastly, what? I’d always had an idea that marriage was a bit of a wash-out, but I’d never dreamed that it demanded such frightful sacrifices from a fellow. I passed the rest of the meal in a sort of stupor.
The scheme had been, if I remember, that after lunch I should go off and caddy for Honoria on a shopping tour down Regent Street; but when she got up and started collecting me and the rest of her things, Aunt Agatha stopped her.
“You run along, dear,” she said. “I want to say a few words to Bertie.”
So Honoria legged it, and Aunt Agatha drew up her chair and started in.
“Bertie,” she said, “dear Honoria does not know it, but a little difficulty has arisen about your marriage.”
“By Jove! not really?” I said, hope starting to dawn.