My Man Jeeves

YEARDSLEY.
    P.S.—We can give you new milk and fresh eggs. Think of that!
    P.P.S.—Bill says our billiard–table is one of the best he has ever played on.
    P.P.S.S.—We are only half a mile from a golf course. Bill says it is better than St. Andrews.
    P.P.S.S.S.—You
must
come!
    Well, a fellow comes down to breakfast one morning, with a bit of a head on, and finds a letter like that from a girl who might quite easily have blighted his life! It rattled me rather, I must confess.
    However, that bit about the golf settled me. I knew Bill knew what he was talking about, and, if he said the course was so topping, it must be something special. So I went.
    Old Bill met me at the station with the car. I hadn't come across him for some months, and I was glad to see him again. And he apparently was glad to see me.
    "Thank goodness you've come," he said, as we drove off. "I was just about at my last grip."
    "What's the trouble, old scout?" I asked.
    "If I had the artistic what's–its–name," he went on, "if the mere mention of pictures didn't give me the pip, I dare say it wouldn't be so bad. As it is, it's rotten!"
    "Pictures?"
    "Pictures. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like when one gives her her head?"
    I remembered then—it hadn't come back to me before—that most of my time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture–galleries. During the period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill. Somehow it had never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after marrying an artist. I should have thought that by this time the mere sight of a picture would have fed her up. Not so, however, according to old Bill.
    "They talk pictures at every meal," he said. "I tell you, it makes a chap feel out of it. How long are you down for?"
    "A few days."
    "Take my tip, and let me send you a wire from London. I go there to–morrow. I promised to play against the Scottish. The idea was that I was to come back after the match. But you couldn't get me back with a lasso."
    I tried to point out the silver lining.
    "But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there's a most corking links near here."
    He turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.
    "You don't mean honestly she said that?"
    "She said you said it was better than St. Andrews."
    "So I did. Was that all she said I said?"
    "Well, wasn't it enough?"
    "She didn't happen to mention that I added the words, 'I don't think'?"
    "No, she forgot to tell me that."
    "It's the worst course in Great Britain."
    I felt rather stunned, don't you know. Whether it's a bad habit to have got into or not, I can't say, but I simply can't do without my daily allowance of golf when I'm not in London.
    I took another whirl at the silver lining.
    "We'll have to take it out in billiards," I said. "I'm glad the table's good."
    "It depends what you call good. It's half–size, and there's a seven–inch cut just out of baulk where Clarence's cue slipped. Elizabeth has mended it with pink silk. Very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn't improve the thing as a billiard–table."
    "But she said you said——"
    "Must have been pulling your leg."
    We turned in at the drive gates of a good–sized house standing well back from the road. It looked black and sinister in the dusk, and I couldn't help feeling, you know, like one of those Johnnies you read about in stories who are lured to lonely houses for rummy purposes and hear a shriek just as they get there. Elizabeth knew me well enough to know that a specially good golf course was a safe draw to me. And she had deliberately played on her knowledge. What was the game? That was what I wanted to know. And then a sudden thought struck me which brought me out in a cold perspiration. She had some girl down here and was going to have a stab at marrying me off. I've often heard that young married women are all over that sort of thing. Certainly she had said there was nobody at the house but Clarence and herself and Bill and Clarence's father, but a woman who could take the name of St. Andrews in vain as she had done wouldn't be likely to stick at a trifle.
    "Bill, old scout," I said, "there aren't any frightful girls or any rot of that sort stopping here, are there?"
    "Wish there were," he said. "No such