My Man Jeeves

said. "Mr. Cohan?"
    "Er—no."
    "Mr. Fred Stone?"
    "Not absolutely. As a matter of fact, my name's Wooster—Bertie Wooster."
    She seemed disappointed. The fine old name of Wooster appeared to mean nothing in her life.
    "Isn't Rockmetteller home?" she said. "Where is he?"
    She had me with the first shot. I couldn't think of anything to say. I couldn't tell her that Rocky was down in the country, watching worms.
    There was the faintest flutter of sound in the background. It was the respectful cough with which Jeeves announces that he is about to speak without having been spoken to.
    "If you remember, sir, Mr. Todd went out in the automobile with a party in the afternoon."
    "So he did, Jeeves; so he did," I said, looking at my watch. "Did he say when he would be back?"
    "He gave me to understand, sir, that he would be somewhat late in returning."
    He vanished; and the aunt took the chair which I'd forgotten to offer her. She looked at me in rather a rummy way. It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time. My own Aunt Agatha, back in England, has looked at me in exactly the same way many a time, and it never fails to make my spine curl.
    "You seem very much at home here, young man. Are you a great friend of Rockmetteller's?"
    "Oh, yes, rather!"
    She frowned as if she had expected better things of old Rocky.
    "Well, you need to be," she said, "the way you treat his flat as your own!"
    I give you my word, this quite unforeseen slam simply robbed me of the power of speech. I'd been looking on myself in the light of the dashing host, and suddenly to be treated as an intruder jarred me. It wasn't, mark you, as if she had spoken in a way to suggest that she considered my presence in the place as an ordinary social call. She obviously looked on me as a cross between a burglar and the plumber's man come to fix the leak in the bathroom. It hurt her—my being there.
    At this juncture, with the conversation showing every sign of being about to die in awful agonies, an idea came to me. Tea—the good old stand–by.
    "Would you care for a cup of tea?" I said.
    "Tea?"
    She spoke as if she had never heard of the stuff.
    "Nothing like a cup after a journey," I said. "Bucks you up! Puts a bit of zip into you. What I mean is, restores you, and so on, don't you know. I'll go and tell Jeeves."
    I tottered down the passage to Jeeves's lair. The man was reading the evening paper as if he hadn't a care in the world.
    "Jeeves," I said, "we want some tea."
    "Very good, sir."
    "I say, Jeeves, this is a bit thick, what?"
    I wanted sympathy, don't you know—sympathy and kindness. The old nerve centres had had the deuce of a shock.
    "She's got the idea this place belongs to Mr. Todd. What on earth put that into her head?"
    Jeeves filled the kettle with a restrained dignity.
    "No doubt because of Mr. Todd's letters, sir," he said. "It was my suggestion, sir, if you remember, that they should be addressed from this apartment in order that Mr. Todd should appear to possess a good central residence in the city."
    I remembered. We had thought it a brainy scheme at the time.
    "Well, it's bally awkward, you know, Jeeves. She looks on me as an intruder. By Jove! I suppose she thinks I'm someone who hangs about here, touching Mr. Todd for free meals and borrowing his shirts."
    "Yes, sir."
    "It's pretty rotten, you know."
    "Most disturbing, sir."
    "And there's another thing: What are we to do about Mr. Todd? We've got to get him up here as soon as ever we can. When you have brought the tea you had better go out and send him a telegram, telling him to come up by the next train."
    "I have already done so, sir. I took the liberty of writing the message and dispatching it by the lift attendant."
    "By Jove, you think of everything, Jeeves!"
    "Thank you, sir. A little buttered toast with the tea? Just so, sir. Thank you."
    I went back to the sitting–room. She hadn't moved an inch. She was still bolt upright on the edge of her chair, gripping her umbrella like a hammer–thrower. She gave me another of those looks as I came in. There was no doubt about it; for some reason she had taken a dislike to me. I suppose because I wasn't George M. Cohan. It was a bit hard on a chap.
    "This is a surprise, what?" I said, after about five minutes' restful silence, trying to crank the conversation up again.
    "What is a surprise?"
    "Your coming here, don't you know, and so on."
    She raised