“Yes, Jeeves?” I said. And though my voice was suave, a close observer
in a position to watch my eyes would have noticed a steely glint.
Nobody has a greater respect for Jeeves’s intellect than I have, but
this disposition of his to dictate to the hand that fed him had got, I
felt, to be checked. This mess-jacket was very near to my heart, and I
jolly well intended to fight for it with all the vim of grand old Sieur
de Wooster at the Battle of Agincourt.
“Yes, Jeeves?” I said. “Something on your mind, Jeeves?”
“I fear that you inadvertently left Cannes in the possession of a coat
belonging to some other gentleman, sir.”