LORD EMSWORTH MEETS A POET
§ 1
T
HE rain had stopped when Psmith out into the street, and the sun was again in that blustering, manner which it on its after a shower. The cheerfully, and the air had a welcome freshness. Pausing at the corner, he for a moment as to the best method of the hour and twenty minutes which must he think of lunching. The that the offices of the Morning Globe were easy him to go and see if the post had anything in the shape of to his advertisements. And his energy was a minutes later when Box 365 on being opened up a little budget of matter. No than seven in all. A bag.
What, however, had appeared at of a of enterprise on the part of the newspaper-reading public out on closer inspection, when he had retired to a where he in peace, a delusion. Enterprising in a though the were—and they the as men of and push—to Psmith they came as a disappointment. He had things. These were not at all what he had paid good money to receive. They missed the point altogether. The right spirit, it to him, was absent.
The envelope, though it looked from the outside, being of an of and with a a pleasantly-worded offer from a Mr. Alistair MacDougall to him any from ten to fifty thousand on his note of hand only. The second a from another Scot named Colin MacDonald. While in the third Mr. Ian Campbell was prepared to go as high as one hundred thousand. All three had but one to make—they would have no with minors. Youth, with all its traditions, did not to to them. But they Psmith, in the event of his having his twenty-first birthday, to come to the office and take the away in a sack.
Keeping his well in the of this of riches, Psmith the three with a into the waste-paper basket, and opened the next in order. This was a envelope, and its of a printed entitled, “This Night Shall Thy Soul Be Required Of Thee”—while, by a and coincidence, Number Five proved to be a from an of coffin-makers to him for eight ten. Number Six, also printed, was a from one Howard Hill, of Newmarket, him to apply without for “Hill’s Three-Horse Special,” without which—(“Who,” Mr. Hill in large type, “gave you Wibbly-Wob for the Jubilee Cup?”)—no sportsman to the of the bookmakers.
Although by doing so he himself of that very of enterprise which he had been in the great public, Psmith this with the others in the waste-paper baskets. There now only Number Seven, and a of returned to him when he that this was by hand and not in typescript. He opened it.
Beyond a he had the of the to the last. Here was something that up for all those other disappointments. Written in a and hand, the ran as follows:
“If R. Psmith will meet the in the of the Piccadilly Palace Hotel at twelve sharp, Friday, July 1, may result if meant and terms reasonable. R. Psmith will wear a pink in his buttonhole, and will say to the writer, ‘There will be rain in Northumberland to-morrow,’ to which the will reply, ‘Good for the crops.’ Kindly be punctual.”
A pleased played about Psmith’s as he read this for the second time. It was much more the of thing for which he had been hoping. Although his friend, Mike Jackson, was a man of complete ordinariness, Psmith’s tastes when he as a in the direction of the bizarre. He his eccentric. And “the writer,” to judge him by this of his correspondence, appeared to be for the most taste. Whether this promising person out to be a or an crank, Psmith no as to the of the up. Whichever he might be, his ought to the lunch. Psmith at his watch. The hour was a to twelve. He would be able to secure the necessary and the Piccadilly Palace Hotel by twelve sharp, thus the on which the unknown to set such store.
* * * * *
It was not until he had entered a florist’s shop on the way to the that it was in upon him that the was going to have its drawbacks. The of these was the chrysanthemum. Preoccupied with the of the communication, Psmith, when he had read the letter, had not much to the which it would be necessary for him to wear; and it was only when, in reply to his for a chrysanthemum, the came forward, almost hidden, like the army at Dunsinane, what looked like a small shrubbery, that he what he, a and dresser, was up against.
“Is that a chrysanthemum?”
“Yes, sir. Pink chrysanthemum.”
“One?”
“Yes, sir. One pink chrysanthemum.”
Psmith the object with through his eyeglass. Then, having it in his buttonhole, he on his way, like some wild thing through the undergrowth. The his walk.
Arrived at the hotel and in the lobby, he the of complications. The was in its of congestion, it being a meeting-place for those who did not it to go as east as that of Londoners, the spot under the clock at Charing Cross Station; and “the writer,” while as to how Psmith should ornament his exterior, had to mention how he himself was to be recognised. A rollicking, slap-dash conspirator, was Psmith’s opinion.
It best to take up a position as nearly as possible in the centre of the and there until “the writer,” by the chrysanthemum, should come and start something. This he did, but when at the end of ten minutes nothing had a series of with a dozen visitors to the hotel, he on a more active course. A man of had been him for the last five minutes, and and this man had with some at his watch. He was waiting for someone, so Psmith the on him.
“There will be rain,” said Psmith, “in Northumberland to-morrow.”
The man looked at him, not without interest, certainly, but without that of in his which Psmith had to see.
“What?” he replied.
“There will be rain in Northumberland to-morrow.”
“Thanks, Zadkiel,” said the man. “Deuced gratifying, I’m sure. I you couldn’t the of the Goodwood Cup as well?”
He then to a woman in a large who had just come through the doors. Psmith was to the that this was not his man. He was sorry on the whole, for he had a fellow.
As Psmith had taken up a position and the population of the was for the most part in a of flux, he was himself next to someone new all the time; and now he to the the re-shuffle had just to with him. This was a jovial-looking with a waistcoat, a white hat, and a face. Just the man who might have that letter.
The upon this person of Psmith’s was instantaneous. A light of the in his beautifully-shaven as he turned. He Psmith’s hand and it with a heartiness. He had the air of a man who has a friend, and what is more, an old friend. He had a of journeys-end-in-lovers’-meeting look.
“My dear old chap!” he cried. “I’ve been waiting for you to speak for the last five minutes. Knew we’d met somewhere, but couldn’t place you. Face familiar as the dickens, of course. Well, well, well! And how are they all?”
“Who?” said Psmith courteously.
“Why, the boys, my dear chap.”
“Oh, the boys?”
“The dear old boys,” said the other, more exactly. He Psmith on the shoulder. “What times those were, eh?”
“Which?” said Psmith.
“The times we all used to have together.”
“Oh, those?” said Psmith.
Something of to over the other’s exuberance, as a cloud over the sky. But he persevered.
“Fancy meeting you again like this!”
“It is a small world,” Psmith.
“I’d ask you to come and have a drink,” said the one, with the of which comes to a man who the of a deal, “but the is my of a man sent me out this without a penny. Forgot to give me my note-case. Damn’ careless! I’ll have to the fellow.”
“Annoying, certainly,” said Psmith.
“I wish I have you a drink,” said the other wistfully.
“Of all sad of or pen, the are these, ‘It might have been,’” Psmith.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the one, inspired. “Lend me a fiver, my dear old boy. That’s the best way out of the difficulty. I can send it to your hotel or you are this when I home.”
A sweet, sad played over Psmith’s face.
“Leave me, comrade!” he murmured.
“Eh?”
“Pass along, old friend, pass along.”
Resignation in the other’s countenance.
“Nothing doing?” he inquired.
“Nothing.”
“Well, there was no in trying,” the other.
“None whatever.”
“You see,” said the now less man confidentially, “you look such a perfect with that that it a chap.”
“I can how it must!”
“No offence.”
“Assuredly not.”
The white through the doors, and Psmith returned to his quest. He the attention of a middle-aged man in a snuff-coloured who had just come hail.
“There will be rain in Northumberland to-morrow,” he said.
The man at him inquiringly.
“Hey?” he said.
Psmith his observation.
“Huh?” said the man.
Psmith was to the which him such an to the public eye. He had not taken into the possibility that the object of his search might be deaf. It added to the of the pursuit. He was moving away, when a hand on his sleeve.
Psmith turned. The hand which still his to an man of and appearance. During his Psmith had noticed this man not away, and had had a mind to him in the of new friends he was making that morning.
“I say,” said this man in a whisper, “did I you say that there would be rain in Northumberland to-morrow?”
“If,” said Psmith, “you were the of a dozen yards while I was with the adder, I think it is possible that you did.”
“Good for the crops,” said the man. “Come over here where we can talk quietly.”
§ 2
“So you’re R. Psmith?” said the man, when they had their way to a of the lobby, from the throng.
“The same.”
“I say, it, you’re late, you know. I told you to be here at twelve sharp. It’s nearly twelve past.”
“You me,” said Psmith. “I here at twelve. Since when, I have been like Patience on a monument. . . .”
“Like what?”
“Let it go,” said Psmith. “It is not important.”
“I asked you to wear a pink chrysanthemum. So I you, you know.”
“I am a pink chrysanthemum. I should have that that was a that the most have overlooked.”
“That thing?” The other at the decoration. “I it was some of cabbage. I meant one of those little what-d’you-may-call-its that people do wear in their button-holes.”
“Carnation, possibly?”
“Carnation! That’s right.”
Psmith the and it his chair. He looked at his reproachfully.
“If you had at school, comrade,” he said, “much might have been averted. I cannot to tell you the I suffered, through the that shrub.”
Whatever and the other might have at these was away in the on a at his watch. Not for an this return of his to London had Freddie Threepwood been of his father’s to him to catch the twelve-fifty train to Market Blandings. If he missed it, there would be the of a of unpleasantness, and in the home was the one thing Freddie wanted to avoid nowadays; for, like a in a prison, he by to his of at Blandings Castle for good conduct.
“Good Lord! I’ve only got about five minutes. Got to talk quick. . . . About this thing. This business. That of yours.”
“Ah, yes. My advertisement. It you?”
“Was it on the level?”
“Assuredly. We Psmiths do not deceive.”
Freddie looked at him doubtfully.
“You know, you aren’t a like I you’d be.”
“In what respect,” Psmith, “do I of the ideal?”
“It isn’t so much short. It’s—oh, I don’t know . . . Well, yes, if you want to know, I you’d be a altogether. I got the from your that you were and out and for anything, and you look as if you were on your way to a garden-party at Buckingham Palace.”
“Ah!” said Psmith, enlightened. “It is my that is these in your mind. This is the second time this that such a has occurred. Have no misgivings. These may well, but, if they do, it is the pockets are empty.”
“Are you broke?”
“As as the Ten Commandments.”
“I’m if I can it.”
“Suppose I my the way for a moment?” said Psmith obligingly. “Would that help?”
His for a moments. In of the that he was in so great a and that every minute that passed nearer the moment when he would be to tear himself away and make a for Paddington Station, Freddie was it difficult to open the he had come there to discuss.
“Look here,” he said at length, “I shall have to trust you, it.”
“You no course.”
“It’s like this. I’m trying to a thousand . . .”
“I that I cannot offer to it to you myself. I have, indeed, already been to to a who to be an old friend of mine so small a as a fiver. But there is a dear, of the name of Alistair MacDougall who . . .”
“Good Lord! You don’t think I’m trying to touch you?”
“That did through my mind.”
“Oh, it, no. No, but—well, as I was saying, I’m to of a thousand quid.”
“So am I,” said Psmith. “Two minds with but a single thought. How do you to start about it? For my part, I must that I haven’t a notion. I am stumped. The goes the chancelleries, ‘Psmith is baffled!’”
“I say, old thing,” said Freddie plaintively, “you couldn’t talk a less, you? I’ve only got about two minutes.”
“I your pardon. Proceed.”
“It’s so difficult to know how to the thing. I mean, it’s all a till you the of it. . . . Look here, you said in your that you had no to crime.”
Psmith the point.
“Within reason—and if undetected—I see no to two-pennorth of crime.”
“Well, look here . . . look here . . . Well, look here,” said Freddie, “will you my aunt’s diamond necklace?”
Psmith his in his and toward his companion.
“Steal your aunt’s necklace?” he said indulgently.
“Yes.”
“You do not think she might it a from one to she has been introduced?”
What Freddie might have to this question will be known, for at this moment, looking at his watch for the time, he that the hands had passed the half-hour and were well on their way to twenty-five minutes to one. He up with a cry.
“I must go! I shall miss that train!”
“And meanwhile . . . ?” said Psmith.
The familiar phrase—the “And meanwhile” had at least once in every Freddie had seen—had the of the latter’s mind to the in hand for a moment. Freddie was not a clear-thinking man, but he see that he had left the at a very satisfactory point. Nevertheless, he had to catch that twelve-fifty.
“Write and tell me what you think about it,” Freddie, through the like a swallow.
“You have to a name and address,” Psmith pointed out, him at an easy jog-trot.
In of his hurry, a of much movie-seeing Freddie from the asked for. Give away your name and address and you what might happen.
“I’ll to you,” he cried, for a cab.
“I shall count the minutes,” said Psmith courteously.
“Drive like blazes!” said Freddie to the chauffeur.
“Where?” the man, not unreasonably.
“Eh? Oh, Paddington.”
The off, and Psmith, of a not ill-spent, after it for a moment. Then, with the that the of Colney Hatch or some had been negligent, he permitted his mind to turn with in the direction of lunch. For, though he had his day of from Billingsgate Fish Market by late and later, he had aware by now of that not which is the luncheon-gong of the soul.
§ 3
The minor problem now presented itself of where to lunch; and with a moment’s he those large, noisy, and restaurants which near Piccadilly Circus. After a with Eve Halliday and the man who was going about the place people to his aunt’s necklace, it was that he select some place where he and think quietly. Any food of which he must be in calm, surroundings, by the presence of a who himself into and an in there was no such word as piano. One of his indicated.
In the days of his prosperity, Psmith’s father, an clubman, had his son’s name on the list of institutions: and now, although the years had arrived, he was still a of six, and would continue to be a till the of the new year and the call for fresh subscriptions. These from the Drones, frivolous, to the Senior Conservative, worthy. Almost Psmith that for such a mood as was upon him at the moment, the might have been constructed.
Anybody familiar with the of the Senior Conservative Club would have his choice. In the whole of London no have been by one of his with excellently-cooked food while his under a examination. They you well at the Drones, too, no doubt: but there Youth carnival, and the man, his soul, was at any moment to have his in upon by a of bread, by some at an table. No of that possibly at the Senior Conservative. The Senior Conservative has six thousand one hundred and eleven members. Some of the six thousand one hundred and eleven are more than the others, but they are all respectable—whether they be numbered among the like the Earl of Emsworth, who joined as a country in 1888, or are among the of the last election of candidates. They are bald, men, who look as if they are on their way to the City to at directors’ or have in after with the Prime Minister at Downing Street as to the at the by-election in the Little Wabsley Division.
With the which for his in years in this of worth, Psmith the steps, passed through the doors which were open for him by two dignitaries, and his way to the coffee-room. Here, having a table in the middle of the room and ordered a and lunch, he gave himself up to of Eve Halliday. As he had to his friend Mr. Walderwick, she had a powerful upon him. He was himself from his day-dreams in order to with a mutton chop, when a into his and against the table. Looking up, he a long, thin, of aspect, who to apologise.
“My dear sir, I am sorry. I trust I have no damage.”
“None whatever,” Psmith courteously.
“The is, I have my glasses. Blind as a without them. Can’t see where I’m going.”
A gloomy-looking man with long and hair, who at the gentleman’s elbow, suggestively. He was restlessly, and appeared to be to close the and move on. A man, evidently, of highly-strung temperament. He had a air.
The started at the of the cough.
“Eh?” he said, as if in answer to some spoken remark. “Oh, yes, so, so, my dear fellow. Mustn’t stop here chatting, eh? Had to apologise, though. Nearly this gentleman’s table. Can’t see where I’m going without my glasses. Blind as a bat. Eh? What? Quite so, so.”
He off, cheerfully, while his still his look of aloofness. Psmith after them with interest.
“Can you tell me,” he asked of the waiter, who was with the potatoes, “who that was?”
The waiter his glance.
“Don’t know who the is, sir. Guest here, I fancy. The old is the Earl of Emsworth. Lives in the country and doesn’t often come to the club. Very absent-minded gentleman, they tell me. Potatoes, sir?”
“Thank you,” said Psmith.
The waiter away, and returned.
“I have been looking at the guest-book, sir. The name of the with Lord Emsworth is Mr. Ralston McTodd.”
“Thank you very much. I am sorry you had the trouble.”
“No trouble, sir.”
Psmith his meal.
§ 4
The of the man who had Lord Emsworth through the coffee-room the which were his soul. Ralston McTodd, the powerful singer of Saskatoon (“Plumbs the of and a new note”—Montreal Star. “Very readable”—Ipsilanti Herald), had not his lunch. The of by the that for the time in his life he was hob-nobbing with a had way after ten minutes of his host’s to a and which had as the proceeded. It is not too much to say that by the time the fish it would have been a to Mr. McTodd’s if he have taken up the butter-dish and it down, and all, on his lordship’s head.
A man was Ralston McTodd. He liked to be the centre of the picture, to do the talking, to air his views, to be to and with by a audience. At the which had just none of these had been permitted to him. From the very beginning, Lord Emsworth had the and it with a gentle, against all assaults. Five times had Mr. McTodd almost succeeded in one of his best epigrams, only to see it away on the of a lecture on hollyhocks. At the attempt he had managed to it out, complete and sparkling, and the old opposite him had taken it in his like a and gone off about the and of a named Angus McAllister, who appeared to be his or something of the kind. The luncheon, though he was a and as a of good cooking, had to in Mr. McTodd’s mouth, and it was a and Singer of Saskatoon who into an arm-chair by the window of the smoking-room a moments later. We Ralston McTodd to the reader, in short, at a moment when he is very near the breaking-point. A little more provocation, and what he may not do. For the time being, he is in his chair and scowling. He has a hope, however, that a cigar may some of relief, and he is waiting for one to be ordered for him.
The Earl of Emsworth did not see the scowl. He had not Mr. McTodd at all from the moment of his at the club, when somebody, who like the porter, had him that a was waiting to see him and had him up to a which had itself as his guest. The of his had had its on Lord Emsworth, making the world a place in which objects like fish in water. Not that this much, that he was in London, for in London there was anything looking at. Beyond a that it would be more on the whole if he had his glasses—a just to have him send off a messenger boy to his hotel to for them—Lord Emsworth had not allowed of to with his of the proceedings.
And, Mr. McTodd, he had been himself very much. A good listener, this man, he felt. Very soothing, the way he had himself a audience, or himself forward, as is so often the of the modern man. Lord Emsworth was to admit that, much as he had the idea of going to London to up this or he was, the thing had out than he had expected. He liked Mr. McTodd’s but in flowers, his but warm-hearted in the of Angus McAllister. He was he was to Blandings. It would be to him personally through the gardens, to him to Angus McAllister and allow him to for himself the black of that outcast’s processes.
Meanwhile, he had all about ordering that cigar . . .
“In large gardens where space permits,” said Lord Emsworth, into his chair and taking up the at the point where it had been off, “nothing is more than that there should be some places, or one at least, of alone, without any flowers whatever. I see that you agree with me.”
Mr. McTodd had not with him. The which Lord Emsworth had taken for an of to his had been a of of from the of Mr. McTodd’s soul—the cry, as the puts it, “of some in his agony.” The to had now Mr. McTodd’s very vitals; but, as some of the social him from point-blank for the cigar for which he yearned, he in his mind for a way of the obliquely.
“In no other way,” Lord Emsworth, “can the of flowers be so as by . . .”
“Talking of flowers,” said Mr. McTodd, “it is a fact, I believe, that tobacco is good for roses.”
“. . . as by for a time,” said Lord Emsworth, “in some cool, green alley, and then on to the places. It is partly, no doubt, the out of some law, the of which in language is that the . . .”
“Some people say that is for the eyes. I don’t agree with them,” said Mr. McTodd warmly.
“. . . being, as it were, with the green colour, is the more to the others, the reds. It was some such that the of the many old gardens of England in so much attention to the of the tree. When you come to Blandings, my dear fellow, I will you our alley. And, when you see it, you will agree that I was right in taking the I did against Angus McAllister’s views.”
“I was in a yesterday,” said Mr. McTodd, with the McTodd doggedness, “where they had no matches on the tables in the smoking-room. Only spills. It it very . . .”
“Angus McAllister,” said Lord Emsworth, “is a professional gardener. I need say no more. You know as well as I do, my dear fellow, what professional are like when it is a question of . . .”
“What it meant was that, when you wanted to light your after-luncheon cigar, you had to up and go to a gas-burner on a at the other end of the room . . .”
“Moss, for some reason, to them. It their passions. Nature a to be with a growth. The path in the at Blandings is in true relation for colour to the trees and edges; yet will you it that that to Scotland actually to it all up and have a rolled path up from those trees! I have already told you how I was to give in to him in the of the hollyhocks—head of any ability at all are in these days and one has to make concessions—but this was too much. I was perfectly and about it. ‘Certainly, McAllister,’ I said, ‘you may have your path if you wish it. I make but one proviso, that you it over my body. Only when I am in my blood on the of that shall you one of my moss. Try to remember, McAllister,’ I said, still cordially, ‘that you are not out a ground in a Glasgow suburb—you are to make an of what is possibly the most in one of the and gardens in the United Kingdom.’ He some Scotch noise at the of his throat, and there the rests. . . . Let me, my dear fellow,” said Lord Emsworth, into the of his chair like an until his rested against the leather, “let me for you the Yew Alley at Blandings. Entering from the west . . .”
Mr. McTodd gave up the and back, with black and thoughts, into a tobacco-less hell. The smoking-room was full now, and on all clouds from the little groups of who were what Gladstone had said in ’78. Mr. McTodd, as he them, had something of the of the Peri from Paradise. So was he by this time that he would have the straight-cut cigarette in place of the Corona of his dreams. But this for was him.
Lord Emsworth on. Having approached from the west, he was now well the alley.
“Many of the yews, no doubt, have taken other than those that were originally designed. Some are like chessmen; some might be taken for of figures, for one can here and there a hat-covered or a petticoat. Some in solid with and finial. These have for the most part recesses, arbours. One of the . . . Eh? What?”
Lord Emsworth at the waiter who had up. A moment he had been a hundred odd miles away, and it was not easy to his mind to the that he was in the smoking-room of the Senior Conservative Club.
“Eh? What?”
“A messenger boy has just with these, your lordship.”
Lord Emsworth in a and manner at the spectacle-case. Intelligence returned to him.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. My glasses. Capital! Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He the from their case and them on his nose: and the world into being his eyes, and well-defined. It was like out of a fog.
“Dear me!” he said in a self-congratulatory voice.
Then he sat up, transfixed. The smoking-room at the Senior Conservative Club is on the level, and Lord Emsworth’s chair the large window. Through this, as he his now face, he for the time that among the of shops on the opposite of the road was a new florist’s. It had not been there at his last visit to the metropolis, and he at it raptly, as a small boy would at a of ice-cream if such a thing had from in of him. And, like a small boy in such a situation, he had for nothing else. He did not look at his guest. Indeed, in the of his discovery, he had that he had a guest.
Any flower shop, small, was a to the Earl of Emsworth. And this was a particularly and flower shop. Its window was with blooms. And Lord Emsworth, slowly from his chair, “pointed” like a dog that sees a pheasant.
“Bless my soul!” he murmured.
If the reader has with the which it the of his recorded in the last paragraphs, he will have noted a to hollyhocks. Lord Emsworth had the question at some little length while seated at the table. But, as we had not the good to be present at that meal, a résumé of the must now be and the public allowed to judge his and the McAllister.
Briefly, the position was this. Many are to in the that one cannot but think have for their an that is a false and one. Angus McAllister, to the head-gardeneresque of and form, would not the wide petal. The flower, so Angus held, must be very tight and very round, like the of a major-general. Lord Emsworth, on the other hand, this view narrow, and the to try for the very and in hollyhocks. The loosely-folded of the hollyhock, he considered, a play and of colour; while the wide petal, with its surface and . . . well, anyway, Lord Emsworth liked his and Angus McAllister liked them tight, and had resulted, in which, as we have seen, his had been to give way. He had been on this since, and in the opposite he saw a possible sympathiser, a ally, an with he together and Angus McAllister’s Glaswegian obstinacy.
You would not have Lord Emsworth, from a glance, of having him the ability to move rapidly; but it is a that he was out of the smoking-room and the steps of the Mr. McTodd’s jaw, which had at the of his out of his of like a jack-rabbit, had time to itself up again. A moment later, Mr. McTodd, to direct his out of the window, saw him across the road and into the florist’s shop.
It was at this that Psmith, having his lunch, came to a cup of coffee. The room was crowded, and the chair which Lord Emsworth had offered a wide invitation. He his way to it.
“Is this chair occupied?” he politely. So that Mr. McTodd’s reply by more than it might otherwise have done.
“No, it isn’t!” Mr. McTodd.
Psmith seated himself. He was to conversation.
“Lord Emsworth has left you then?” he said.
“Is he a friend of yours?” Mr. McTodd in a voice that that he was perfectly to accept a as a for his wrath.
“I know him by sight. Nothing more.”
“Blast him!” Mr. McTodd with virulence.
Psmith him inquiringly.
“Correct me if I am wrong,” he said, “but I to in your manner a half-veiled annoyance. Is anything the matter?”
Mr. McTodd bitterly.
“Oh, no. Nothing’s the matter. Nothing whatever, that that old beaver—”—here he Lord Emsworth, who, his faults, was not a man—“that old me to lunch, talked all the time about his flowers, let me a word in edgeways, hadn’t the common to offer me a cigar, and now has gone off without a word of and himself in that shop over the way. I’ve been so in my life!” Mr. McTodd.
“Scarcely the perfect host,” Psmith.
“And if he thinks,” said Mr. McTodd, rising, “that I’m going to go and with him at his after this, he’s mistaken. I’m to go there with him this evening. And the old thinks I will! After this!” A laugh rolled up from Mr. McTodd’s interior. “Likely! I see myself! After being like this . . . Would you?” he demanded.
Psmith gave the thought.
“I am to think no.”
“And so am I well to think no!” Mr. McTodd. “I’m going away now, this very minute. And if that old total comes back, you can tell him he’s the last of me.”
And Ralston McTodd, his blood with and to a on such a warm day, off the door with a hard, set face. Through the door he to the cloak-room for his and cane; then, his moving silently, he through the hall, the steps, and passed from the scene, the in of a tobacconist’s. At the moment of his disappearance, the Earl of Emsworth had just to give the a character-sketch of Angus McAllister.
* * * * *
Psmith his sadly. These of were very lamentable. They the after-luncheon of the man of sensibility. He ordered coffee, and to the painful by of Eve Halliday.
§ 5
The who had settled to his opposite the Senior Conservative Club was a fellow, on the question and so in the of delphiniums, achilleas, coreopsis, eryngiums, geums, lupines, and early that Lord Emsworth gave himself up whole-heartedly to the of and the of soul; and it was only some fifteen minutes later that he that he had left a guest in the smoking-room and that this guest might be him a in the of the of hospitality.
“Bless my soul, yes!” said his lordship, out from under the with a start.
Even then he not himself to from the shop. Twice he the door and twice to at flowers and say something he had to mention about the Stronger Growing Clematis. Finally, however, with one last, longing, look behind, he himself away and across the road.
Arrived in the smoking-room, he in the for a moment, peering. The place had been a to him when he had left it, but he that he had been in the middle window and, as there were only two seats by the window, that tall, dark man in one of them must be the guest he had deserted. That he be a to Lord Emsworth. So had the time passed in the shop across the way that he had the that he had only been gone a of minutes or so. He his way to where the man sat. A idea came into his that the other had a in his absence, but it passed.
“My dear fellow,” he said genially, as he into the other chair, “I must apologise.”
It was plain to Psmith that the other was under a misapprehension, and a nice-minded man would no have put the right at once. The that it for a single to Psmith to do so was due, no doubt, to some in his character. He was a man who took life as it came, and the more it came the he liked it. Presently, he reflected, it would necessary for him to make some and out of the other’s life; but meanwhile the to him to present possibilities.
“Not at all,” he graciously. “Not at all.”
“I was for a moment,” said Lord Emsworth, “that you might—quite naturally—be offended.”
“Absurd!”
“Shouldn’t have left you like that. Shocking manners. But, my dear fellow, I had to across the street.”
“Most decidedly,” said Psmith. “Always across streets. It is the of a happy and successful life.”
Lord Emsworth looked at him a little perplexedly, and if he had the last correctly. But his mind had been designed for the purpose of closely on problems for any length of time, and he let it go.
“Beautiful roses that man has,” he observed. “Really an display.”
“Indeed?” said Psmith.
“Nothing to touch mine, though. I wish, my dear fellow, you have been at Blandings at the of the month. My roses were at their best then. It’s too you weren’t there to see them.”
“The fault no was mine,” said Psmith.
“Of you weren’t in England then.”
“Ah! That it.”
“Still, I shall have of flowers to you when you are at Blandings. I expect,” said Lord Emsworth, at last a host-like to give his guest a innings, “I you’ll one of your about my gardens, eh?”
Psmith was of a of gratification. Weeks of among the of Billingsgate had left him with a of that in private life there to him the of the fish market. Yet here was a perfectly looking at him and him for a poet—showing that in of all he had gone through there must still be something and about his appearance.
“Very possibly,” he said. “Very possibly.”
“I you ideas for your from all of things,” said Lord Emsworth, the to the again. He was this fellow. It was of him not to be put out and at being left alone in the smoking-room.
“From everything,” said Psmith, “except fish.”
“Fish?”
“I have a about fish.”
“No?” said Lord Emsworth, again that a pin had in the of the conversation.
“I was once offered a sum,” on Psmith, now along on the of his native exuberance, “to a for the Fishmonger’s Gazette entitled, ‘Herbert the Turbot.’ But I was firm. I declined.”
“Indeed?” said Lord Emsworth.
“One has one’s self-respect,” said Psmith.
“Oh, decidedly,” said Lord Emsworth.
“It was painful, of course. The when he that my was final. However, I sent him on with a of to John Drinkwater, who, I believe, him out a good little on the theme.”
At this moment, when Lord Emsworth was a dizzy, and Psmith, on always as a stimulus, was on the point of into the of light persiflage, a waiter approached.
“A lady to see you, your lordship.”
“Eh? Ah, yes, of course, of course. I was her. It is a Miss —— what is the name? Holliday? Halliday. It is a Miss Halliday,” he said in to Psmith, “who is to Blandings to the library. My secretary, Baxter, told her to call here and see me. If you will me for a moment, my dear fellow?”
“Certainly.”
As Lord Emsworth disappeared, it to Psmith that the moment had for him to his and out of the other’s life for ever. Only so and be avoided. And it was Psmith’s in life always to avoid explanations. It might, he felt, Lord Emsworth a when he returned to the smoking-room and that he was a short, but what is that in these modern days when are so that it is almost to a in any public place without some singer. Psmith’s view of the was that, if Lord Emsworth was on with poets, there was to be another one along in a minute. He was on the point, therefore, of rising, when the by a good him to in his chair for a minutes longer. He was in one of those moods of which it is to break.
He another cigarette, and his thoughts, as they had done after the of Mr. McTodd, in the direction of the girl he had met at Miss Clarkson’s Employment Bureau. He upon her with a melancholy. Sad, he felt, that two like himself and her should meet in the of London life, only to again—presumably for ever—simply the those who are male and female a man to a by the lady’s name and address, her to lunch, and friendship. He as he out of the smoking-room window. As he had in his with Mr. Walderwick, those and that cheerful, had a on him. Who was she? Where did she live? And was he to see her again?
He was. Even as he asked himself the question, two came the steps of the club, and paused. One was Lord Emsworth, without his hat. The other—and Psmith’s gave a at the of her—was the very girl who was his thoughts. There she stood, as blue-eyed, as fair-haired, as and as ever.
Psmith rose from his chair with a almost equal to that by Mr. McTodd. It was his to add himself to the group. He across the room in a manner that from the local greybeards, many of had a mind to to the about it.
But when he the open air the at the of the steps was empty. The girl was just the into the Strand, and of Lord Emsworth there was no whatever.
By this time, however, Psmith had a useful knowledge of his lordship’s habits, and he where to look. He the and for the florist’s shop.
“Ah, my dear fellow,” said his amiably, his with the on the of delphiniums, “must you be off? Don’t that our train Paddington at five sharp. You take your ticket for Market Blandings.”
Psmith had come into the shop with the of his if he to know Miss Halliday’s address, but these opened out such a of possibilities that he had this programme immediately. He now that among Mr. McTodd’s on in had been one to the that he had an to visit Blandings Castle—of which he did not to himself; and he that if he had as for Mr. McTodd at the club, he might well continue the work by for him at Blandings. Looking at the altruistically, he would prevent his much by taking this course; and, looking at it from a more personal viewpoint, only by going to Blandings he his with this girl. Psmith had been one of those who when Adventure calls, and he did not now.
“At five sharp,” he said. “I will be there.”
“Capital, my dear fellow,” said his lordship.
“Does Miss Halliday travel with us?”
“Eh? No, she is in a day or two.”
“I shall look to meeting her,” said Psmith. He to the door, and Lord Emsworth with a his with the florist.
