Stiff Upper Lip Jeeves

compelled by circumstances it is always wisest not to stir him, but a sharp crisis has been precipitated in my affairs. All is not well between Gussie Fink-Nottle and Madeline Bassett. Their engagement is tottering toward the melting pot, and you know what that engagement means to me. I’m going down there to try to heal the rift.’
    ‘What can you do?’
    ‘My role, as I see it, will be that of what the French call the raisonneur?
    ‘And what does that mean?’
    ‘Ah, there you have me, but that’s what Jeeves says I’ll be.’
    ‘Are you taking Jeeves with you?’
    ‘Of course. Do I ever stir foot without him?’
    ‘Well, watch out, that’s all I say to you, watch out. I happen to know that Bassett is making overtures to him.’
    ‘How do you mean, overtures?’
    ‘He’s trying to steal him from you.’
    I reeled, and might have fallen, had I not been sitting at the time.
    ‘Incredulous!’
    ‘If you mean incredible, you’re wrong. I told you how he had fallen under Jeeves’s spell when he was here. He used to follow him with his eyes as he buttled, like a cat watching a duck, as Anatole would say. And one morning I heard him making him a definite proposition. Well? What’s the matter with you? Have you fainted?’
    I told her that my momentary silence had been due to the fact that her words had stunned me, and she said she didn’t see why, knowing Bassett, I should be so surprised.
    ‘You can’t have forgotten how he tried to steal Anatole. There isn’t anything to which that man won’t stoop. He has no conscience whatsoever. When you get to Totleigh, go and see someone called Plank and ask him what he thinks of Sir Watkyn ruddy Bassett. He chiselled this poor devil Plank out of a … Oh, hell!’ said the aged relative as a voice intoned ‘Thur-ree minutes’, and she hung up, having made my flesh creep as nimbly as if she had been my guardian angel, on whose talent in that direction I have already touched.
    It was still creeping with undiminished gusto as I steered the sports model along the road to Totleigh-in-the-Wold that afternoon. I was convinced, of course, that Jeeves would never dream of severing
    relations with the old firm, and when urged to do so by this blighted Bassett would stop his ears like the deaf adder, which, as you probably know, made a point of refusing to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. But the catch is that you can be convinced about a thing and nevertheless get pretty jumpy when you muse on it, and it was in no tranquil mood that I eased the Arab steed through the gates of Totleigh Towers and fetched up at the front door.
    I don’t know if you happen to have come across a hymn, the chorus of which goes:
    Turn tumty tumty tumty Tum tiddly om pom isle, Where every prospect pleases And only man is vile or words to that effect, but the description would have fitted Totleigh Towers like the paper on the wall. Its fa9ade, its spreading grounds, rolling parkland, smoothly shaven lawns and what not were all just like Mother makes, but what percentage was there in that, when you knew what was waiting for you inside? It’s never a damn bit of use a prospect pleasing, if the gang that goes with it lets it down.
    This lair of old Bassett’s was one of the fairly stately homes of England - not a show place like the joints you read about with three hundred and sixty-five rooms, fifty-two staircases and twelve courtyards, but definitely not a bungalow. He had bought it furnished some time previously from a Lord somebody who needed cash, as so many do these days.
    Not Pop Bassett, though. In the evening of his life he had more than a sufficiency. It would not be going too far, indeed, to describe him as stinking rich. For a great part of his adult life he had been a metropolitan police magistrate, and in that capacity once fined me five quid for a mere light-hearted peccadillo on Boat Race Night, when a mild reprimand would more than have met the case. It was shortly after this that a relative died and left him a vast fortune. That, at least, was the story given out. What really happened, of course, was that all through his years as a magistrate he had been trousering the fines, amassing the stuff in sackfuls. Five quid here, five quid there, it soon mounts up.
    We had made goodish going on the road, and it wasn’t more than about four-forty when I rang the front-door bell. Jeeves took the car to the stables, and the butler - Butterfield was his