" I'm making great progress with the banjo-lele, Jeeves." " Indeed, sir ? " " Would yoA like me to play you ' What Is This Thing Called Love ' ?
" " No, sir." " Your views on the instrument are unchanged ? " " Yes, sir." " Ah, well! A pity we could not see eye to eye on that matter." "
Yes, sir." " Still, it can't be helped. No hard feelings." " No, sir." "
Unfortunate, though." " Most unfortunate, sir." " Well, tell old Stoker that I shall be there at seven prompt with my hair in a braid." " Yes, sir." " Or should I write a brief, civil note ? " " No, sir. I was instructed to bring back a verbal reply." " Right ho, then." " Very good, sir." At seven on the dot, accordingly, I stepped aboard the yacht and handed the hat and light overcoat to a passing salt. It was with mixed feelings that I did so, for conflicting emotions were warring in the bosom. On the one hand, the keen ozone of Chuffnell Regis had given me a good appetite, and I knew from recollections of his hosp. in New York that J. Washbum Stoker
did his guests well. On the other, I had never been what you might call tranquil in his society, and I was not looking forward to it particularly now. You might put it like this if you cared to-The fleshly or corporeal Wooster was anticipating the hinge with pleasure, but his spiritual side rather recoiled a bit. In my experience, there are two kinds of elderly American. One, the stout and hornrimmed, is matiness itself. He greets you as if you were a favourite son, starts agitating the cocktail shaker before you know where you are, slips a couple into you with a merry laugh, claps you on the back, tells you a dialect story about two Irishmen named Pat and Mike, and, in a word, makes life one grand, sweet song. The other, which runs a good deal to the cold, grey stare and the square jaw, seems to view the English cousin with concern. It is not Elfin. It broods. It says little. It sucks in its breath in a pained way. And every now and again you catch its eye, and it is like colliding with a raw oyster. Of this latter class or species J. Washbum Stoker had always been the perpetual vice president. It was with considerable relief, therefore, that I found that to-night he had eased off a bit. While not precisely affable, he gave a distinct impression of being as nearly affable as he knew how. " I hope you have no objection to a quiet
family dinner^ Mr. Wooster ? " he said, having shaken the hand. " Rather not. Dashed good of you to ask me," I replied, not to be outdone in the courtesies. " Just you and Dwight and myself. My daughter is lying down.
She has a headache." This was something of a jar. In fact, it seemed to me to take what you might describe as the whole meaning out of this expedition. " Oh ? " I said. " I am afraid she found her exertions last night a little too much for her," said Pop Stoker, with something of the old fishlike expression in the eye : and, reading between the lines, I rather gathered that Pauline had been sent to bed without her supper, in disgrace. Old Stoker was not one of your broad-minded, modem parents.
There was, as I had had occasion to notice before, a distinct touch of the stern and rockbound old Pilgrim Father about him. A man, in short, who, in his dealings with his family, believed in the firm hand.
Observing that eye, I found it a bit difficult t.o shape the kindly inquiries. " Then you-er . . . sheer-- ? " " Yes. You were quite tfight, Mr. Wooster. She had gone for a swim." And once more, as he spoke, I caught a flash of the fishlike. I could see that Pauline's stock was far from high this p.m., and I would have liked to put in a word for the poor young
blighter. But beyond an idea of saying that girls would be girls, which I abandoned, I could think of nothing. At this moment, however, a steward of sorts announced dinner, and we pushed in. I must say that there were moments during that dinner when I regretted that occurrences which could not be overlooked had resulted in the absence from the board of the Hall party. You will question this statement, no doubt, inclining to the view that all a dinner party needs to make it a success is for Sir Roderick Glossop, the Dowager Lady Chuffnell, and the latter's son, Seabury, not to be there. Nevertheless, I stick to my opinion. There was a certain uncomfortable something about the atmosphere which more or less turned the food to ashes in my mouth. If it hadn't been that this man, this Stoker, had gone out of his way ,to invite me, I should have said that I was giving him a pain in the neck. Most of the time he just sat and champed in a sort of dark silence, like a man with something on his mind. And when he did speak it was with a marked what-d'you-call-it.
