I found George Tupper at the Foreign Office, surrounded by important-looking papers.
“Here you are at last!” cried George, resentfully, it seemed to me. “I thought you were never coming back.”
“I had a splendid time, thanks very much for asking,” I replied. “Got the roses back to my cheeks.”
George, who seemed far from his usual tranquil self, briefly cursed my cheeks and their roses.
“Look here,” he said, urgently, “something’s got to be done. Have you seen Ukridge yet?”
“Not yet. I thought I would look him up this evening.”
“You’d better. Do you know what has happened? That poor ass has gone and got himself engaged to be married to a girl at Clapham!”
“What?”
“Engaged! Girl at Clapham! Clapham Common,” added George Tupper, as if in his opinion that made the matter even worse.
“You’re joking!”