"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

"But I rather fancy myself in it."

"Not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."

"Oh, all right, have it your own way."

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

Of course, I know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then Jeeves is
always right. You've got to consider that, you know. What?




JEEVES AND THE UNBIDDEN GUEST


I'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it's
Shakespeare--or, if not, it's some equally brainy lad--who says that
it's always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and
more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up
behind him with a bit of lead piping. There's no doubt the man's right.
It's absolutely that way with me. Take, for instance, the fairly rummy
matter of Lady Malvern and her son Wilmot. A moment before they turned
up, I was just thinking how thoroughly all right everything was.

It was one of those topping mornings, and I had just climbed out from
under the cold shower, feeling like a two-year-old. As a matter of