* * * * *
My aunt Agatha's husband, Spenser Gregson, who is on the Stock
Exchange, had recently cleaned up to an amazing extent in Sumatra
Rubber; and Aunt Agatha, in selecting a country estate, had lashed out
on an impressive scale. There were miles of what they call rolling
parkland, trees in considerable profusion well provided with doves and
what not cooing in no uncertain voice, gardens full of roses, and also
stables, outhouses, and messuages, the whole forming a rather fruity
_tout ensemble_. But the feature of the place was the lake.
It stood to the east of the house, beyond the rose garden, and covered
several acres. In the middle of it was an island. In the middle of the
island was a building known as the Octagon. As we drew nearer, striking
a fast clip with self at the oars and Jeeves handling the tiller ropes,
we heard cries of gradually increasing volume, if that's the expression
I want; and presently, up aloft, looking from a distance as if he were
perched on top of the bushes, I located the Right Hon. He was in the
middle of the Octagon, seated on the roof and spouting water like a
public fountain. It seemed to me that even a cabinet minister ought to
have had more sense than to stay right out in the open like that, when
there were trees to shelter under.
"A little more to the right, Jeeves."
"Very good, sir."