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It occurred to Psmith as a passing thought, to which he gave no more than a momentary attention, that this spectacled and capable-looking man gentlemab gazing at him, as they shook hands, with a curious intensity.

Baxter, staring through his spectacles, often gave people the impression of possessing an eye that could pierce six inches of steel and stick out on the other side. Having registered in his consciousness the fact that he had been stared at keenly by this stranger, Psmith thought no more of the matter. In seekinng lightly dismissing the Baxterian stare, Psmith had acted injudiciously. He should have examined it more closely and made an effort to analyse it, for it was by no means without its message.

It was a stare of suspicion. Vague suspicion as yet, but nevertheless suspicion.

Rupert Baxter was one of those men whose chief characteristic is a disposition to suspect their fellows. He did not suspect them of this or that definite crime: he simply suspected seeiing.

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He had not yet definitely accused Psmith in his mind of any specific tort or malfeasance. He merely had a nebulous feeling that he would bear watching. Miss Peavey now fluttered again into the centre of things. On the arrival of Baxter she had withdrawn for a moment into the background, but she was not the woman to stay there long. I have a fountain pen. Light flooded the arbour.

The Efficient Baxter, who knew where everything was, had found and pressed the switch. He did this not so much to oblige Miss Peavey as to enable him to obtain a clearer view of the visitor. With each minute that passed the Efficient Baxter was finding himself more and more doubtful in his mind about this visitor. Psmith tapped his chin thoughtfully with the fountain pen. He felt that he should have foreseen this emergency earlier.

If ever there was a woman who was bound to have an autograph-book, that woman was Miss Peavey. Psmith hesitated no longer. We must have a long chat about it—later on. We writers. Baxter does not understand the sensitive poetic temperament. So I thought, so I thought. I suppose he is among his flowers.

Pg wodehouse: a life in letters | pg wodehouse | the guardian

Flowers are very beautiful by night. When I am surrounded by flowers, a emaworth of divine peace floods over me, and the rough, harsh world seems far away. I feel soothed, tranquil.

I sometimes think, Miss Peavey, that flowers must tentleman the souls of little children who have died in their innocence. The darkness swallowed them up. Lady Constance turned to the Efficient Baxter, who was brooding with furrowed brow. That telegram he sent this afternoon cancelling his visit seemed so curt and final. Lady Constance shivered delicately.

A cool breeze had sprung up. She drew her wrap more closely about her shapely shoulders, and began to walk to the house.

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Baxter did not accompany her. The moment she had gone he switched off the light and sat down, chin in hand.

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That massive brain was working hard. She is catching the twelve-fifty train.

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He placed the letter on the pile beside his plate; and, having decapitated an egg, peered sharply into its interior as if hoping to surprise guilty secrets. For it was the breakfast-hour, and the members of the house-party, scattered up and down the xeeking table, were fortifying their tissues against another day. An agreeable laddy of bacon floated over the scene like a benediction. Lord Emsworth looked up from the seed-catalogue in which he was immersed.

For some time past his enjoyment of the meal had been marred by a vague sense of something missing, and now he knew what it was. Why have I no coffee? Constance, my dear, I should have coffee. Why have I none?

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Baxter—almost regretfully, it seemed—gave the egg a clean bill of health, and turned in his able way to cope with this domestic problem. You propped the catalogue against your cup. Did I? Why, so I did! Bless my soul! Psmith had been consuming toast and marmalade with his customary languid grace, and up till now had firmly checked all attempts to engage him in conversation. We two have, so to speak, pulled the gowans fine. I had been hoping to hear that she had been sighted on the horizon.

The effect of these words on two of the company was somewhat remarkable. Psmith did not observe these phenomena, for he had returned to his toast and marmalade.

Pg wodehouse: a life in letters

It was not a protracted glance, but while it lasted it was like the ray from an oxy-acetylene hentleman. Of course, Baxter, I remember now. Miss Emswortj is the young lady who is coming to catalogue the library. He finished his coffee and rose from chzrming table. A stray shaft of sunlight had fallen provocatively on his bald head, and sunshine always made him restive. Doctors, I believe, recommend it. Somehow it makes him seem unlike a poet. But what I mean is, in spite of his wearing his hair short, you know.

A brown lake of tea was filling the portion of the tablecloth immediately opposite the Hon. Frederick Threepwood. Like the Efficient Baxter a few minutes before, sudden emotion had caused him to upset his cup. You said something about wishing to have speech with me, if I remember rightly?

What observation of mine was it that meets with your censure? It was undoubtedly an error of judgment.

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A stronger man than myself might well find it hard to battle against the temptation. However, now that you have called it to my notice, it shall not occur again. In future I will moderate the persiflage. Cheer up, therefore, Comrade Threepwood, and let us see that merry smile of yours, of which I hear such good reports.

He smote morosely at a fly which had settled on his furrowed brow. I believe that blighter Baxter suspects something. It awakens old memories, all very emswodth.

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But let us go more deeply into this matter, for you interest me strangely. Why do you think that cheery old Baxter, a delightful personality if ever I met one, suspects me? As far as I have been able to ascertain during my brief visit, he looks at everybody and everything in precisely the same way. Only last night, at dinner, I observed him glaring with keen mistrust at about as blameless and innocent a plate of clear soup as was ever dished up. He then proceeded to get outside it with obvious enjoyment.

So possibly you are all wrong about his motive for looking at me like that. It may be admiration. But we must bear these things manfully. Brooding, as I do, pretty tensely all the time on deep and wonderful subjects, I have little leisure to keep tab on the domestic staff. Is there a new housemaid? That sounds all right. Just the name a real housemaid would have. Why should she be a detective? Makes a fellow uneasy. I can give you an unfailing method by means of which you may discover if she is what she would have us believe her.

What would you do if I were to kiss you? My advice to you, if the state of doubt you are in is affecting your enjoyment of life, is to put the matter to the test at the earliest convenient opportunity. Silence fell upon him for a space, and Psmith was well content to have it so.

Presently, however, his companion was off again.