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tackle any undertaking that had nothing to do with fish. I am confidently expecting shoals of replies. I look forward to winnowing the heap and selecting the most desirable.’
    ‘Pretty hard to get a job these days,’ said Mike doubtfully.
    ‘Not if you have something superlatively good to offer.’
    ‘What have you got to offer?’
    ‘My services,’ said Psmith with faint reproach.
    ‘What as?’
    ‘As anything. I made no restrictions. Would you care to take a look at my manifesto? I have a copy in my pocket.’
    Psmith produced from inside his immaculate waistcoat a folded clipping.
    ‘I should welcome your opinion of it, Comrade Jackson. I have frequently said that for sturdy common sense you stand alone. Your judgment should be invaluable.’
    The advertisement, which some hours earlier had so electrified the Hon. Freddie Threepwood in the smoking-room at Blandings Castle, seemed to affect Mike, whose mind was of the stolid and serious type, somewhat differently. He finished his perusal and stared speechlessly.
    ‘Neat, don’t you think?’ said Psmith. ‘Covers the ground adequately? I think so, I think so.’
    ‘Do you mean to say you’re going to put drivel like that in the paper?’ asked Mike.
    ‘I have put it in the paper. As I told you, it appeared this morning. By this time to-morrow I shall no doubt have finished sorting out the first batch of replies.’
    Mike’s emotion took him back to the phraseology of school days.
    ‘You are an ass!’
    Psmith restored the clipping to his waistcoat pocket.
    ‘You wound me, Comrade Jackson,’ he said. ‘I had expected a broader outlook from you. In fact, I rather supposed that you would have rushed round instantly to the offices of the journal and shoved in a similar advertisement yourself. But nothing that you can say can damp my buoyant spirit. The cry goes round Kensington (and district) “Psmith is off!” In what direction the cry omits to state: but that information the future will supply. And now, Comrade Jackson, let us trickle into yonder tea-shop and drink success to the venture in a cup of the steaming. I had a particularly hard morning to-day among the whitebait, and I need refreshment.’
    § 2
    After Psmith had withdrawn his spectacular person from it, there was an interval of perhaps twenty minutes before anything else occurred to brighten the drabness of Wallingford Street. The lethargy of afternoon held the thoroughfare in its grip. Occasionally a tradesman’s cart would rattle round the corner, and from time to time cats appeared, stalking purposefully among the evergreens. But at ten minutes to five a girl ran up the steps of Number Eighteen and rang the bell.
    She was a girl of medium height, very straight and slim; and her fair hair, her cheerful smile, and the boyish suppleness of her body all contributed to a general effect of valiant gaiety, a sort of golden sunniness – accentuated by the fact that, like all girls who looked to Paris for inspiration in their dress that season, she was wearing black.
    The small maid appeared again.
    ‘Is Mrs Jackson at home?’ said the girl. ‘I think she’s expecting me. Miss Halliday.’
    ‘Yes, miss.’
    A door at the end of the narrow hall had opened.
    ‘Is that you, Eve?’
    ‘Hallo, Phyl, darling.’
    Phyllis Jackson fluttered down the passage like a rose-leaf on the wind, and hurled herself into Eve’s arms. She was small and fragile, with great brown eyes under a cloud of dark hair. She had a wistful look, and most people who knew her wanted to pet her. Eve had always petted her, from their first days at school together.
    ‘Am I late or early?’ asked Eve.
    ‘You’re the first, but we won’t wait. Jane, will you bring tea into the drawing-room.’
    ‘Yes’m.’
    ‘And, remember, I don’t want to see anyone for the rest of the afternoon. If anybody calls, tell them I’m not at home. Except Miss Clarkson and Mrs McTodd, of course.’
    ‘Yes’m.’
    ‘Who is Mrs