Letter #76 from My Pal Bertie
The final letter.
I pushed on to the old flat, seething like the dickens. One thing I was jolly certain of, and that was that this was where Jeeves and I parted company. A topping valet, of course, none better in London, but I wasn’t going to allow that to weaken me. I buzzed into the flat like an east wind ... and there was the box of cigarettes on the small table and the illustrated weekly papers on the big table and my slippers on the floor, and every dashed thing so bally right, if you know what I mean, that I started to calm down in the first two seconds. It was like one of those moments in a play where the chappie, about to steep himself in crime, suddenly hears the soft, appealing strains of the old melody he learned at his mother’s knee. Softened, I mean to say. That’s the word I want. I was softened.
And then through the doorway there shimmered good old Jeeves in the wake of a tray full of the necessary ingredients, and there was something about the mere look of the man....
However, I steeled the old heart and had a stab at it.
“I have just met Mr. Little, Jeeves,” I said.
“Indeed, sir?”
“He—er—he told me you had been helping him.”
“I did my best, sir. And I am happy to say that matters now appear to be proceeding smoothly. Whisky, sir?”
“Thanks. Er—Jeeves.”
“Sir?”
“Another time....”
“Sir?”
“Oh, nothing.... Not all the soda, Jeeves.”
“Very good, sir.”
He started to drift out.
“Oh, Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“I wish ... that is ... I think ... I mean.... Oh, nothing!”
“Very good, sir. The cigarettes are at your elbow, sir. Dinner will be ready at a quarter to eight precisely, unless you desire to dine out?”
“No. I’ll dine in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“Oh, nothing!” I said.
“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves.
Goodbye dear friend,
Bertie