The small bachelor

by P. G. Wodehouse

"Where?"

"There!"

"Which?"

"That."

"What?" Bewilderment was limned upon the girl's fair face. "I don't understand. What do you want me to specially look at?"

"At what do you want me especially to look," corrected Hamilton Beamish mechanically. He drew her across the roof. "You see that summer-house thing? It is George Finch's open-air sleeping-porch. Go in, shut the door, switch on the light...."

"But...."

"... and remove a portion of your clothes."

"What!"

"And if anybody comes tell him that George Finch rented you the apartment and that you are dressing to go out to dinner. I, meanwhile, will go down to my apartment and will come up in a few minutes to see if you are ready to be taken out to dine." Pardonable pride so overcame Hamilton Beamish that he discarded the English Pure and relapsed into the argot of the proletariat. "Is that a cracker-jack?" he demanded with gleaming eyes. "Is that a wam? Am I the bozo with the big bean or am I not?"