"Correct, Jeeves. I was. But mercifully I was enabled to discover young
Sippy's foul plot in time. Do you know what?"
"No, sir."
"My spies informed me that Sippy's fiancée, Miss Moon, was to be
there. Also his fiancée's mother, Mrs. Moon, and his fiancée's small
brother, Master Moon. You see the hideous treachery lurking behind the
invitation?
"Obviously, my job was to be the task of keeping Mrs. Moon and little
Sebastian Moon interested and amused while Sippy and his blighted girl
went off for the day, roaming the pleasant woodlands and talking of
this and that. I doubt if anyone has ever had a narrower escape. You
remember little Sebastian?"
"Yes, sir."
"His goggle-eyes? His golden curls?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't know why it is, but I've never been able to bear with
fortitude anything in the shape of a kid with golden curls. Confronted
with one, I feel the urge to step on him or drop things on him from a
height."
"Many strong natures are affected in the same way, sir."
"So no _chez_ Sippy for me. Was that the front doorbell ringing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Somebody stands without?"
"Yes, sir."
"Better go and see who it is."
"Yes, sir."
He oozed off, to return a moment later bearing a telegram. I opened it,
and a soft smile played about the lips.
"Amazing how often things happen as if on a cue, Jeeves. This is from
Aunt Dahlia, inviting me down to her place in Worcestershire."
"Most satisfactory, sir."
"Yes. How I came to overlook her when searching for a haven, I can't
think. The ideal home from home. Picturesque surroundings, company's
own water, and the best cook in England. You have not forgotten
Anatole?"
"No, sir."
"And above all, Jeeves, at Aunt Dahlia's there should be an almost
total shortage of blasted kids. True, there is her son Bonzo, who, I
take it, will be home for the holidays, but I don't mind Bonzo. Buzz
off and send a wire, accepting."
"Yes, sir."
"And then shove a few necessaries together, including golf clubs and
tennis racket."
"Very good, sir. I am glad that matters have been so happily adjusted."
* * * * *
I think I have mentioned before that my Aunt Dahlia stands alone in the
grim regiment of my aunts as a real good sort and a chirpy sportsman.
She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers and,
with the assistance of Jeeves, lured Mrs. Bingo Little's French cook,
Anatole, into her own employment.
To visit her is always a pleasure. She generally has some cheery birds
staying with her, and there is none of that rot about getting up for
breakfast which one is so sadly apt to find at country houses.
It was, accordingly, with unalloyed lightness of heart that I edged the
two-seater into the garage at Brinkley Court, Worc., and strolled round
to the house by way of the shrubbery and the tennis lawn, to report
arrival. I had just got across the lawn when a head poked itself out of
the smoking-room window and beamed at me in an amiable sort of way.
"Ah, Mr. Wooster," it said.
"What ho," I replied, not to be outdone in the courtesies.
It had taken me a couple of seconds to place this head. I now perceived
that it belonged to a rather moth-eaten septuagenarian of the name of
Anstruther, an old friend of Aunt Dahlia's late father. I had met him
at her house in London once or twice. An agreeable cove, but somewhat
given to nervous breakdowns.
"Just arrived?" he asked, beaming as before.
"This minute," I said, also beaming.
"I fancy you will find our good hostess in the drawing room."
"Right," I said, and after a bit more beaming to and fro I pushed on.
Aunt Dahlia was in the drawing room, and welcomed me with gratifying
enthusiasm. She beamed, too. It was one of those big days for beamers.
"Hullo, ugly," she said. "So here you are. Thank heaven you were able
to come."
It was the right tone, and one I should be glad to hear in others of
the family circle, notably my Aunt Agatha.
"Always a pleasure to enjoy your hosp., Aunt Dahlia," I said cordially.
"I anticipate a delightful and restful visit. I see you've got Mr.
Anstruther staying here. Anybody else?"
"Do you know Lord Snettisham?" Aunt Dahlia asked.
"I've met him, racing," I answered.
"He's here, and Lady Snettisham."
"And Bonzo, of course?"
"Yes. And Thomas."
"Uncle Thomas?"
"No, he's in Scotland. Your cousin Thomas."
"You don't mean Aunt Agatha's loathly son?"
"Of course I do. How many cousin Thomases do you think you've got,
fathead? Agatha has gone to Homburg and planted the child on me."