It has been well said of Bertram Wooster by those who know him best
that, whatever other sporting functions he may see fit to oil out
of, you will always find him battling to his sixteen handicap at the
annual golf tournament of the Drones' Club. Nevertheless, when I heard
that this year they were holding it at Bingley-on-Sea, I confess I
hesitated; and as I stood gazing out of the window of my suite at the
Splendide on the morning of the opening day the brow was a bit knitted.
I was not exactly atwitter, if you understand me, but I couldn't help
feeling I might have been rather rash.
"Jeeves," I said, "now that we have actually arrived I find myself
wondering if it was quite prudent to come here."
"It is a pleasant spot, sir."
"Where every prospect pleases," I agreed. "But though the spicy breezes
blow fair o'er Bingley-on-Sea, we must never forget that this is where
my aunt Agatha's old friend, Miss Mapleton, runs a girls' school.
If the relative knew I was here she would expect me to call on Miss
Mapleton."
"Very true, sir."