PAINFUL SCENE AT THE DRONES CLUB
M
EANWHILE, at the Drones Club, a painful had been taking place. Psmith, the of the building, had his way to the wash-room, where, having his with for a moment in the mirror, he his hair, which the rain had disordered, and his with care. He then to the cloak-room for his hat. The him as he entered with the air of one mind is not at rest.
“Mr. Walderwick was in here a moment ago, sir,” said the attendant.
“Yes?” said Psmith, interested. “An energetic, soul, Comrade Walderwick. Always somewhere. Now here, now there.”
“Asking about his umbrella, he was,” the with a touch of coldness.
“Indeed? Asking about his umbrella, eh?”
“Made a great about it, sir, he did.”
“And rightly,” said Psmith with approval. “The good man loves his umbrella.”
“Of I had to tell him that you had took it, sir.”
“I would not have it otherwise,” Psmith heartily. “I like this of candour. There must be no reservations, no you and Comrade Walderwick. Let all be open and above-board.”
“He very put out, sir. He off to you.”
“I am always of a with Comrade Walderwick,” said Psmith. “Always.”
He left the cloak-room and for the hall, where he the to him a cab. This having up in of the club, he the steps and was about to enter it, when there was a in his rear, and through the door there came a youth, who called loudly:
“Here! Hi! Smith! Dash it!”
Psmith into the and out at the new-comer.
“Ah, Comrade Walderwick!” he said. “What have we on our mind?”
“Where’s my umbrella?” the pink one. “The cloak-room waiter says you took my umbrella. I mean, a joke’s a joke, but that was a good umbrella.”
“It was, indeed,” Psmith cordially. “It may be of to you to know that I it as the only possible one from among a number of competitors. I this is very mixed, Comrade Walderwick. You with your pure mind would the of some of the I in the cloak-room.”
“Where is it?”
“The cloak-room? You turn to the left as you go in at the main entrance and . . .”
“My umbrella, it! Where’s my umbrella?”
“Ah, there,” said Psmith, and there was a touch of in his voice, “you have me. I gave it to a lady in the street. Where she is at the present moment I not say.”
The pink slightly.
“You gave my to a girl?”
“A very way of her. You would not speak of her in that light fashion if you had her. Comrade Walderwick, she was wonderful! I am a plain, blunt, man, above the as a thing, but I that she a in me which is not often stirred. She my old heart, Comrade Walderwick. There is no other word. Thrilled it!”
“But, it! . . .”
Psmith out a long arm and his hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Be brave, Comrade Walderwick!” he said. “Face this thing like a man! I am sorry to have been the means of you of an excellent umbrella, but as you will I had no alternative. It was raining. She was over there, the of that shop. She wanted to be elsewhere, but the in wait to her hat. What I do? What any man of the name do but go to the cloak-room and pinch the best in and take it to her? Yours was easily the best. There was no comparison. I gave it to her, and she has gone off with it, happy once more. This explanation,” said Psmith, “will, I am sure, your natural chagrin. You have your umbrella, Comrade Walderwick, but in what a cause! In what a cause, Comrade Walderwick! You are now to rank with Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh. The is the closer parallel. He spread his to keep a queen from her feet. You—by proxy—yielded up your to save a girl’s hat. Posterity will be proud of you, Comrade Walderwick. I shall be if you do not go in and song. Children in to come will about their grandfather’s knees, saying, ‘Tell us how the great Walderwick his umbrella, grandpapa!’ And he will tell them, and they will from the better, deeper, children. . . . But now, as I see that the driver has started his meter, I I must this little chat—which I, for one, have enjoyed. Drive on,” he said, out of the window. “I want to go to Ada Clarkson’s International Employment Bureau in Shaftesbury Avenue.”
The moved off. The Hon. Hugo Walderwick, after one in its wake, that he was wet and into the club.
* * * * *
Arriving at the address named, Psmith paid his and, having the stairs, the ground-glass window of Enquiries.
“My dear Miss Clarkson,” he in an voice, the the window had up, “if you can me a moments of your valuable time . . .”
“Miss Clarkson’s engaged.”
Psmith her through his monocle.
“Aren’t you Miss Clarkson?”
Enquiries said she was not.
“Then,” said Psmith, “there has been a misunderstanding, for which,” he added cordially, “I am to blame. Perhaps I see her anon? You will me in the waiting-room when required.”
He into the waiting-room, and, having up a magazine from the table, settled to read a in The Girl’s Pet—the January number of the year 1919, for Employment Agencies, like dentists, their of a vintage. He was in this when Eve came out of the private office.
