Jeeves in the Offing

feet, cold or piping hot, but I had no wish to bandy words.
‘I must ask you, Kipper,’ I said with frigid dignity, ‘to request your girl friend to preserve the decencies of debate. My feet are not cold. I am as intrepid as a lion and only too anxious to get down to brass tacks, but just as I was working round to the res, Phyllis came in. She said she had something she wanted to speak to him about.’
Bobbie snorted again, this time in a despairing sort of way.
‘She’ll be there for hours. It’s no good waiting.’
‘No,’ said Kipper. ‘May as well call it off for the moment. We’ll let you know time and place of next fixture, Bertie.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, and they drifted away.
And about a couple of minutes later, as I stood there brooding on Kipper’s sad case, Aunt Dahlia came along. I was glad to see her. I thought she might possibly come across with aid and comfort, for though, like the female in the poem I was mentioning, she sometimes inclined to be a toughish egg in hours of ease, she could generally be relied on to be there with the soothing solace when one had anything wrong with one’s brow.
As she approached, I got the impression that her own brow had for some reason taken it on the chin. Quite a good deal of that upon-which- all-the-ends-of-the-earth-are-come stuff, it seemed to me.
Nor was I mistaken.
‘Bertie,’ she said, heaving to beside me and waving a trowel in an overwrought manner, ‘do you know what?’
‘No, what?’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the aged relative, rapping out a sharp monosyllable such as she might have uttered in her Quorn and Pytchley days on observing a unit of the pack of hounds chasing a rabbit. ‘That ass Phyllis has gone and got engaged to Wilbert Cream!’

17
Her words gave me quite a wallop. I don’t say I reeled, and everything didn’t actually go black, but I was shaken, as what nephew would not have been. When a loved aunt has sweated herself to the bone trying to save her god-child from the clutches of a New York playboy and learns that all her well-meant efforts have gone blue on her, it’s only natural for her late brother’s son to shudder in sympathy.
‘You don’t mean that?’ I said. ‘Who told you?’
‘She did.’
‘In person?’
‘In the flesh. She came skipping to me just now, clapping her little hands and bleating about how very, very happy she was, dear Mrs Travers. The silly young geezer. I nearly conked her one with my trowel. I’d always thought her half-baked, but now I think they didn’t even put her in the oven.’
‘But how did it happen?’
‘Apparently that dog of hers joined you in the water.’
‘Yes, that’s right, he took his dip with the rest of us. But what’s that got to do with it?’
‘Wilbert Cream dived in and saved him.’
‘He could have got ashore perfectly well under his own steam. In fact, he was already on his way, doing what looked like an Australian crawl.’
‘That wouldn’t occur to a pinhead like Phyllis. To her Wilbert Cream is the man who rescued her dachshund from a watery grave. So she’s going to marry him.’
‘But you don’t marry fellows because they rescue dachshunds.’
‘You do, if you’ve a mentality like hers.’
‘Seems odd.’
‘And is. But that’s how it goes. Girls like Phyllis Mills are an open book to me. For four years I was, if you remember, the proprietor and editress of a weekly paper for women.’ She was alluding to the periodical entitled Milady’s Boudoir, to the Husbands and Brothers page of which I once contributed an article or ‘piece’ on What The Well- Dressed Man Is Wearing. It had recently been sold to a mug up Liverpool way, and I have never seen Uncle Tom look chirpier than when the deal went through, he for those four years having had to foot the bills.
‘I don’t suppose,’ she continued, ‘that you were a regular reader, so for your information there appeared in each issue a short story, and in seventy per cent of those short stories the hero won the heroine’s heart by saving her dog or her cat or her canary or whatever foul animal she happened to possess. Well, Phyllis didn’t write all those stories, but she easily might have done, for that’s the way her mind works. When I say mind,’ said the blood relation, ‘I refer to the quarter-teaspoonful of brain which you might possibly find in her head if you sank an artesian well. Poor Jane!’
‘Poor who?’
‘Her mother. Jane Mills.’
‘Oh, ah, yes. She was a