Bertram Wooster wanted no more on earth, this fine May morning, than to make his way through a plate of the toothsome E & B and, possibly, one of his sagacious manservant's miraculous restoratives, before pottering along to the Drones to find out how Bingo had made out with Madeleine last night.

  Yet no sooner had the morning paper arrived on the Wooster lap, and been unfolded for a brief perusal of the day's racing news, than something about as welcome as an overexcited scoutmaster in a prep school dormitory slid out onto the eiderdown.

  It was an invitation, and one embossed in an unmistakable hand. Aunt Agatha was determined that I attend her garden party. Perish it. I'd just have to be in France. And she knew that I wasn't in France, a postscript added, because she had caught sight of me the previous night in St James's. Perish it and inter it with all ceremony. There was nothing for it.

  "Jeeves," I said. "We are going to visit Aunt Agatha. Bring me my gun."