Right Ho, Jeeves · Chapter 7 (2/2)

I remember reading in one of those historical novels once about a chap⁠—a buck he would have been, no doubt, or a macaroni or some such bird as that⁠—who, when people said the wrong thing, merely laughed down from lazy eyelids and flicked a speck of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace at his wrists. This was practically what I did now. At least, I straightened my tie and smiled one of those inscrutable smiles of mine. I then withdrew and went out for a saunter in the garden.

And the first chap I ran into was young Tuppy. His brow was furrowed, and he was moodily bunging stones at a flowerpot.