"From something in Uncle George's manner, Jeeves, as he referred to my
aunt Agatha's probable reception of the news, I gather that this Miss
Platt is not of the _noblesse_."
"No, sir. She is a waitress at his lordship's club."
"My God! The proletariat!"
"The lower middle classes, sir."
"Well, yes, by stretching it a bit, perhaps. Still, you know what I
mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Rummy thing, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully, "this modern tendency to
marry waitresses. If you remember, before he settled down young Bingo
Little was repeatedly trying to do it."
"Yes, sir."
"Odd!"
"Yes, sir."
"Still, there it is, of course. The point to be considered now is, What
will Aunt Agatha do about this? You know her, Jeeves. She is not like
me. I'm broad-minded. If Uncle George wants to marry waitresses, let
him, say I. I hold that the rank is but the penny stamp----"
"Guinea stamp, sir."
"All right, guinea stamp. Though I don't believe there is such a thing.
I shouldn't have thought they came higher than five bob. Well, as I was
saying, I maintain that the rank is but the guinea stamp and a girl's a
girl for all that."
"'For _a'_ that,' sir. The poet Burns wrote in the North British
dialect."
"Well, 'a' that,' then, if you prefer it."
"I have no preference in the matter, sir. It is simply that the poet
Burns----"
"Never mind about the poet Burns."
"No, sir."
"Forget the poet Burns."
"Very good, sir."
"Expunge the poet Burns from your mind."
"I will do so immediately, sir."
"What we have to consider is not the poet Burns but the aunt Agatha.
She will kick, Jeeves."
"Very probably, sir."
"And, what's worse, she will lug me into the mess. There is only one
thing to be done. Pack the toothbrush and let us escape while we may,
leaving no address."
"Very good, sir."
At this moment the bell rang.
"Ha!" I said. "Someone at the door."
"Yes, sir."
"Probably Uncle George back again. I'll answer it. You go and get ahead
with the packing."
"Very good, sir."
I sauntered along the passage, whistling carelessly, and there on the
mat was Aunt Agatha. Herself. Not a picture.
A nasty jar.
"Oh, hullo!" I said, it seeming but little good to tell her I was out
of town and not expected back for some weeks.
"I wish to speak to you, Bertie," said the Family Curse. "I am greatly
upset."
She legged it into the sitting room and volplaned into a chair. I
followed, thinking wistfully of Jeeves packing in the bedroom. That
suitcase would not be needed now. I knew what she must have come about.
"I've just seen Uncle George," I said, giving her a lead.
"So have I," said Aunt Agatha, shivering in a marked manner. "He
called on me while I was still in bed to inform me of his intention of
marrying some impossible girl from South Norwood."
"East Dulwich, the cognoscenti inform me."
"Well, East Dulwich, then. It is the same thing. But who told you?"
"Jeeves."
"And how, pray, does Jeeves come to know all about it?"
"There are very few things in this world, Aunt Agatha," I said gravely,
"that Jeeves doesn't know all about. He's met the girl."
"Who is she?"
"One of the waitresses at the Buffers."
I had expected this to register, and it did. The relative let out a
screech rather like the Cornish Express going through a junction.
"I take it from your manner, Aunt Agatha," I said, "that you want this
thing stopped."
"Of course it must be stopped."
"Then there is but one policy to pursue. Let me ring for Jeeves and ask
his advice."
Aunt Agatha stiffened visibly. Very much the _grande dame_ of the old
régime.
"Are you seriously suggesting that we should discuss this intimate
family matter with your manservant?"
"Absolutely. Jeeves will find the way."
"I have always known that you were an imbecile, Bertie," said the flesh
and blood, now down at about three degrees Fahrenheit, "but I did
suppose that you had some proper feeling, some pride, some respect for
your position."
"Well, you know what the poet Burns says."
She squelched me with a glance.
"Obviously the only thing to do," she said, "is to offer this girl
money."
"Money?"
"Certainly. It will not be the first time your uncle has made such a
course necessary."
We sat for a bit, brooding. The family always sits brooding when the
subject of Uncle George's early romance comes up. I was too young to be
actually in on it at the time, but I've had the details frequently from
many sources, including Uncle George. Let him get even the slightest
bit pickled, and he will tell you the whole story, sometimes twice in
an evening. It was a barmaid at the Criterion, just before he came into
the title. Her name was Maudie and he loved her dearly, but the family
would have none of it. They dug down into the sock and paid her off.
Just one of those human-interest stories, if you know what I mean.