My Man Jeeves

fellow a protective kind of feeling, made him want to stroke her hand and say, "There, there, little one!" or words to that effect. She made me feel that there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. She was rather like one of those innocent–tasting American drinks which creep imperceptibly into your system so that, before you know what you're doing, you're starting out to reform the world by force if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man in the corner that, if he looks at you like that, you will knock his head off. What I mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old knight–errant or something of that kind. I felt that I was with her in this thing to the limit.
    "I don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," I said to Corky. "He will think Miss Singer the ideal wife for you."
    Corky declined to cheer up.
    "You don't know him. Even if he did like Muriel he wouldn't admit it. That's the sort of pig–headed guy he is. It would be a matter of principle with him to kick. All he would consider would be that I had gone and taken an important step without asking his advice, and he would raise Cain automatically. He's always done it."
    I strained the old bean to meet this emergency.
    "You want to work it so that he makes Miss Singer's acquaintance without knowing that you know her. Then you come along——"
    "But how can I work it that way?"
    I saw his point. That was the catch.
    "There's only one thing to do," I said.
    "What's that?"
    "Leave it to Jeeves."
    And I rang the bell.
    "Sir?" said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room. He's like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.
    The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectful attention, a weight seemed to roll off my mind. I felt like a lost child who spots his father in the offing. There was something about him that gave me confidence.
    Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces. His eye gleams with the light of pure intelligence.
    "Jeeves, we want your advice."
    "Very good, sir."
    I boiled down Corky's painful case into a few well–chosen words.
    "So you see what it amount to, Jeeves. We want you to suggest some way by which Mr. Worple can make Miss Singer's acquaintance without getting on to the fact that Mr. Corcoran already knows her. Understand?"
    "Perfectly, sir."
    "Well, try to think of something."
    "I have thought of something already, sir."
    "You have!"
    "The scheme I would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what may seem to you a drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financial outlay."
    "He means," I translated to Corky, "that he has got a pippin of an idea, but it's going to cost a bit."
    Naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for this seemed to dish the whole thing. But I was still under the influence of the girl's melting gaze, and I saw that this was where I started in as a knight–errant.
    "You can count on me for all that sort of thing, Corky," I said. "Only too glad. Carry on, Jeeves."
    "I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Corcoran take advantage of Mr. Worple's attachment to ornithology."
    "How on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"
    "It is the way these New York apartments are constructed, sir. Quite unlike our London houses. The partitions between the rooms are of the flimsiest nature. With no wish to overhear, I have sometimes heard Mr. Corcoran expressing himself with a generous strength on the subject I have mentioned."
    "Oh! Well?"
    "Why should not the young lady write a small volume, to be entitled—let us say—
The Children's Book of American Birds
, and dedicate it to Mr. Worple! A limited edition could be published at your expense, sir, and a great deal of the book would, of course, be given over to eulogistic remarks concerning Mr. Worple's own larger treatise on the same subject. I should recommend the dispatching of a presentation copy to Mr. Worple, immediately on publication, accompanied by a letter in which the young lady asks to be allowed to