Pelham Wodehouse - The Return of Jeeves

Monica saw more clearly into the matter.

Observing the cap and apron, she deduced that this must be that almost legendary figure, the housemaid.

"Ellen?" she queried.

"Yes, m'lady. I was looking for his lordship."

"I think he's in his room. Anything I can do?"

"It's this gentleman that's just come, asking to see his lordship, m'lady. I saw him driving up in his car and, Mr. Jeeves being busy in the dining-room, I answered the door and showed him into the morning-room."

"Who is he?"

"A Captain Biggar, m'lady."

Rory chuckled amusedly.

"Biggar? Reminds me of that game we used to play when we were kids, Moke—the Bigger Family."

"I remember."

"You do? Then which is bigger, Mr. Bigger or Mrs. Bigger?"

"Rory, really."

"Mr. Bigger, because he's father Bigger. Which is bigger, Mr. Bigger or his old maid aunt?"

"You're not a child now, you know."

"Can you tell me, Ellen?"

"No, sir."

"Perhaps Mrs. Dogsbody can," said Rory, as that lady came bustling in.

There was a look of modest triumph on Mrs. Spottsworth's handsome face.

"Did you tell Sir Roderick?" she said.

"I told him," said Monica.

"I found the Long Gallery, Sir Roderick."

"Three rousing cheers," said Rory. "Continue along these lines, and you'll soon be finding bass drums in telephone booths. But pigeon-holing that for the moment, do you know which is bigger, Mr.

Bigger or his old maid aunt?"

Mrs. Spottsworth looked perplexed.

"I beg your pardon?"

Rory repeated his question, and her perplexity deepened.

"But I don't understand."

"Rory's just having one of his spells," said Monica.

"The old maid aunt," said Rory, "because, whatever happens, she's always Bigger."

"Pay no attention to him," said Monica.

"He's quite harmless on these occasions. It's just that a Captain Biggar has called. That set him off. He'll be all right in a minute."

Mrs. Spottsworth's fine eyes had widened.

"Captain Biggar?"

"There's another one," said Rory, knitting his brow, "only it eludes me for the moment. I'll get it soon. Something about Mr. Bigger and his son."

"Captain Biggar?" repeated Mrs.

Spottsworth. She turned to Ellen. "Is he a gentleman with a rather red face?"

"He's a gentleman with a very red face," said Ellen. She was a girl who liked to get these things right.

Mrs. Spottsworth put a hand to her heart.

"How extraordinary!"

"You know him?" said Monica.

"He is an old, old friend of mine. I knew him when ... Oh, Monica, could you ... would you ... could you possibly invite him to stay?"

Monica started like a war-horse at the sound of the bugle.

"Why, of course, Rosalinda. Any friend of yours. What a splendid idea."

"Oh, thank you." Mrs. Spottsworth turned to Ellen. "Where is Captain Biggar?"

"In the morning-room, madam."

"Will you take me there at once. I must see him."

"If you will step this way, madam."

Mrs. Spottsworth hurried out, followed sedately by Ellen. Rory shook his head dubiously.

"Is this wise, Moke, old girl?

Probably some frightful outsider in a bowler hat and a made-up tie."

Monica's eyes were sparkling.

"I don't care what he's like. He's a friend of Mrs. Spottsworth's, that's all that matters. Oh, Bill!" she cried, as Bill came in.

Bill was tail-coated, white-tied and white-waistcoated, and his hair gleamed with strange unguents. Rory stared at him in amazement.

"Good God, Bill! You look like Great Lovers Through The Ages. If you think I'm going to dress up like that, you're much mistaken. You get the old Carmoyle black tie and soft shirt, and like it. I get the idea, of course.

You've dolled yourself up to impress Mrs.

Spottsworth and bring back memories of the old days at Cannes. But I'd be careful not to overdo it, old boy. You've got to consider Jill. If she finds out about you and the Spottsworth—"

Bill started.

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was only making a random remark."

"Don't listen to him, Bill," said Monica. "He's just drooling. Jill's sensible."

"And after all," said Rory, looking on the bright side, "it all happened before you met Jill."

"All what happened?"

"Nothing, old boy, nothing."

"My relations with Mrs.

Spottsworth were pure to the last drop."

"Of course, of course."

"Do you sell muzzles at Harrige's, Rory?" asked Monica.

"Muzzles? Oh, rather. In the Cats, Dogs and Domestic Pets."

"I'm going to buy one for you, to keep you quiet. Just treat him as if he wasn't there, Bill, and listen while I tell you the news.

The most wonderful thing has happened. An old friend of Mrs. Spottsworth's has turned up, and I've invited him to stay."

"An old friend?"

"Another old lover, one presumes."

"Do stop it, Rory. Can't you understand what a marvellous thing this is, Bill! We've put her under an obligation. Think what a melting mood she'll be in after this!"

Her enthusiasm infected Bill. He saw just what she meant.

"You're absolutely right. This is terrific."

"Yes, isn't it a stroke of luck?

She'll be clay in your hands now."

"Clay is the word. Moke, you're superb.

As fine a bit of quick thinking as I ever struck.

Who is the fellow?"

"His name's Biggar. Captain Biggar."

Bill groped for support at a chair. A greenish tinge had spread over his face.

"What!" he cried. "Captain But-but-but—?"

"Ha!" said Rory. "Which is bigger, Mr.

Bigger or Master Bigger? Master Bigger, because he's a little Bigger. I knew I'd get it," he said complacently.

It was a favourite dictum of the late A.

B. Spottsworth, who, though fond of his wife in an absent-minded sort of way, could never have been described as a ladies' man or mistaken for one of those Troubadours of the Middle Ages, that the secret of a happy and successful life was to get rid of the women at the earliest possible opportunity. Give the gentler sex the bum's rush, he used to say, removing his coat and reaching for the poker chips, and you could start to go places. He had often observed that for sheer beauty and uplift few sights could compare with that of the female members of a dinner-party filing out of the room at the conclusion of the meal, leaving the men to their soothing masculine conversation.

To Bill Rowcester at nine o'clock on the night of this disturbing day such an attitude of mind would have seemed incomprehensible. The last thing in the world that he desired was Captain Biggar's soothing masculine conversation. As he stood holding the dining-room door open while Mrs.

Spottsworth, Monica and Jill passed through on their way to the living-room, he was weighed down by a sense of bereavement and depression, mingled with uneasy speculations as to what was going to happen now. His emotions, in fact, were similar in kind and intensity to those which a garrison beleaguered by savages would have experienced, had the United States Marines, having arrived, turned right round and walked off in the opposite direction.

True, all had gone perfectly well so far. Even he, conscience-stricken though he was, had found nothing to which he could take exception in the Captain's small talk up till now. Throughout dinner, starting with the soup and carrying on to the sardines on toast, the White Hunter had confined himself to such neutral topics as cannibal chiefs he had met and what to do when cornered by head-hunters armed with poisoned blowpipes. He had told two rather long and extraordinarily dull stories about a couple of friends of his called Tubby Frobisher and the Subahdar. And he had recommended to Jill, in case she should ever find herself in need of one, an excellent ointment for use when bitten by alligators. To fraudulent bookmakers, chases across country and automobile licences he had made no reference whatsoever.