I waited a moment, but he wouldn't unbend.

"Jeeves," I said, "haven't you any scheme up your sleeve for coping
with this blighter?"

"No, sir."

And he shimmered off to his lair. Obstinate devil! So dashed absurd,
don't you know. It wasn't as if there was anything wrong with that
Country Gentleman hat. It was a remarkably priceless effort, and much
admired by the lads. But, just because he preferred the Longacre, he
left me flat.

It was shortly after this that young Motty got the idea of bringing
pals back in the small hours to continue the gay revels in the home.
This was where I began to crack under the strain. You see, the part of
town where I was living wasn't the right place for that sort of thing.
I knew lots of chappies down Washington Square way who started the
evening at about 2 a.m.--artists and writers and what-not, who
frolicked considerably till checked by the arrival of the morning milk.
That was all right. They like that sort of thing down there. The
neighbours can't get to sleep unless there's someone dancing Hawaiian
dances over their heads. But on Fifty-seventh Street the atmosphere
wasn't right, and when Motty turned up at three in the morning with a
collection of hearty lads, who only stopped singing their college song
when they started singing "The Old Oaken Bucket," there was a marked
peevishness among the old settlers in the flats. The management was
extremely terse over the telephone at breakfast-time, and took a lot of
soothing.