The inimitable Jeeves

Little?’
    I sprang the details on him.
    ‘And that’s how the matter stands, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘I think we ought to rally round a trifle and help poor old Bingo put the thing through. TeU me about old Mr Little. What sort of a chap is he?’
    ‘A somewhat curious character, sir. Since retiring from business he has become a great recluse, and now devotes himself almost entirely to the pleasures of the table.’
    ‘Greedy hog, you mean?’
    ‘I would not, perhaps, take the liberty of describing him in precisely those terms, sir. He is what is usually called a gourmet. Very particular about what he eats, and for that reason sets a high value on Miss Watson’s services.
    ‘The cook?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Well, it looks to me as though our best plan would be to shoot young Bingo in on him after dinner one night. Melting mood, I mean to say, and all that.’
    ‘The difficulty is, sir, that at the moment Mr Little is on a diet, owing to an attack of gout.’
    ‘Things begin to look wobbly.’
    ‘No, sir, I fancy that the elder Mr Little’s misfortune may be turned to the younger Mr Little’s advantage. I was speaking only the other day to Mr Little’s valet, and he was telling me that it has become his principle duty to read to Mr Little in the evenings. If I were in your place, sir, I should send young Mr Little to read to his uncle.’
    ‘Nephew’s devotion, you mean? Old man touched by kindly action, what?’
    ‘Partly that, sir. But I would rely more on young Mr Little’s choice of literature.’
    ‘That’s no good. Jolly old Bingo has a land face, but when it conies to literature he stops at the Sporting Times.”
    ‘That difficulty may be overcome. I would be happy to select books for Mr Little to read. Perhaps I might explain my idea a little further.’
    ‘I can’t say I quite grasp it yet.’
    ‘The method which I advocate is what, I believe, the advertisers call Direct Suggestion, sir, consisting as it does of driving an idea home by constant repetition. You may have had experience of the system?’
    ‘You mean they keep on telling you that some soap or other is the best, and after a bit you come under the influence and charge round the corner and buy a cake?’
    ‘Exactly, sir. The same method was the basis of all the most valuable propaganda during the recent war. I see no reason why it should not be adopted to bring about the desired result with regard to the subject’s views on class distinctions. If young Mr Little were to read day after day to his uncle a series of narratives in which marriage with young persons of an inferior social status was held up as both feasible and admirable, I fancy it would prepare the elder Mr Little’s mind for the reception of the information that his nephew wishes to marry a waitress in a tea-shop.’
    ‘Are there any books of that sort nowadays? The only ones I ever see mentioned in the papers are about married couples who find life grey, and can’t stick each other at any price.’
    ‘Yes, sir, there are a great many, neglected by the reviewers but widely read. You have never encountered All for Love, by Rosie M. Banks?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Nor, A Red, Red Summer, by the same author?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I have an aunt, sir, who owns an almost complete set of Rosie M. Banks’. I could easily borrow as many volumes as young Mr Little might require. They make very light, attractive reading.’
    ‘Well, it’s worth trying.’
    ‘I should certainly recommend the scheme, sir.’
    ‘All right, then. Toddle round to your aunt’s tomorrow and grab a couple of the fruitiest. We can but have a dash at it.’
    ‘Precisely, sir.’

    2
    No Wedding Bells for Bingo

    Bingo reported three days later that Rosie M. Banks was the goods and beyond a question the stuff to give the troops. Old Little had jibbed somewhat at first at the proposed change of literary diet, he not being much of a lad for fiction and having stuck hitherto exclusively to the heavier monthly reviews; but Bingo had got chapter one of All for Love past his guard before he knew what was happening and after that there was nothing to it. Since then they had finished A Red, Red Summer Rose, Madcap Myrtle and Only a Factory Girl, and were half-way through The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick.
    Bingo told me all this in a husky voice over an egg beaten up in sherry. The only blot on the thing from his point of view was that it wasn’t doing a bit of good to the old vocal cords, which were