Much Obliged, Jeeves

always when about to get another whack at Anatole’s cooking. Jeeves presumably felt the same, for he, like me, is one of that master skillet-wielder’s warmest admirers, but whereas I sang a good deal as we buzzed along, he maintained, as is his custom, the silent reserve of a stuffed frog, never joining in the chorus, though cordially invited to.
    Arriving at journey’s end, we all separated. Jeeves attended to the luggage, Ginger took Magnolia Glendennon off to his office, and I made my way to the drawing-room, which I found empty. There seemed to be nobody about, as so often happens when you fetch up at a country house lateish in the afternoon. No sign of Aunt Dahlia, nor of Uncle Tom, her mate. I toyed with the idea of going to see if the latter was in the room where he keeps his collection of old silver, but thought better not. Uncle Tom is one of those enthusiastic collectors who, if in a position to grab you, detain you for hours, talking about sconces, foliation, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, and one wants as little of that sort of thing as can be managed.
    I might have gone to pay my respects to Anatole, but there again I thought better not. He, too, is inclined to the long monologue when he gets you in his power, his pet subject the state of his interior. He suffers from bouts of what he calls mal au foie, and his conversation would be of greater interest to a medical man than to a layman like myself. I don’t know why it is, but when somebody starts talking to me about his liver I never can listen with real enjoyment.
    On the whole, the thing to do seemed to be to go for a saunter in the extensive grounds and messuages.
    It was one of those heavy, sultry afternoons when Nature seems to be saying to itself ‘Now shall I or shall I not scare the pants off these people with a hell of a thunderstorm?’, but I decided to risk it. There’s a small wooded bit not far from the house which I’ve always been fond of, and thither I pushed along. This wooded bit contains one or two rustic benches for the convenience of those who wish to sit and meditate, and as I hove alongside the first of these I saw that there was an expensive-looking camera on it.
    It surprised me somewhat, for I had no idea that Aunt Dahlia had taken to photography, but of course you never know what aunts will be up to next. The thought that occurred to me almost immediately was that if there was going to be a thunderstorm, it would be accompanied by rain, and rain falling on a camera doesn’t do it any good. I picked the thing up, accordingly, and started off with it to take it back to the house, feeling that the old relative would thank me for my thoughtfulness, possibly with tears in her eyes, when there was a sudden bellow and an individual emerged from behind a clump of bushes. Startled me considerably, I don’t mind telling you. He was an extremely stout individual with a large pink face and a Panama hat with a pink ribbon. A perfect stranger to me, and I wondered what he was doing here. He didn’t look the sort of crony Aunt Dahlia would have invited to stay, and still less Uncle Tom, who is so allergic to guests that when warned of their approach he generally makes a bolt for it and disappears, leaving not a wrack behind as I have heard Jeeves put it. However, as I was saying, you never know what aunts will be up to next and no doubt the ancestor had had some good reason for asking the chap to come and mix, so I beamed civilly and opened the conversation with a genial ‘Hullo there’.
    ‘Nice day,’ I said, continuing to beam civilly. ‘Or, rather, not so frightfully nice. Looks as if we were in for a thunderstorm.’
    Something seemed to have annoyed him. The pink of his face had deepened to about the colour of his Panama hat ribbon, and both his chins trembled slightly.
    ‘Damn thunderstorms! ‘ he responded — curtly, I suppose, would be the word, and I said I didn’t like them myself. It was the lightning, I added, that I chiefly objected to.
    ‘They say it never strikes twice in the same place, but then it hasn’t got to.’
    ‘Damn the lightningl What are you doing with my camera?’
    This naturally opened up a new line of thought.
    ‘Oh, is this your camera?’
    ‘Yes, it is.’
    ‘I was taking it to the house.’
    ‘You were, were you? ‘
    ‘I didn’t want it to get wet.’
    ‘Oh? And who are you?’
    I was glad he had asked me that. His whole manner had made it plain to a keen