It's a rum thing, this business of nurturing a valet in your bosom. Jeeves is eternally more so a confidant of troubles and governor of the soul than the chap that pours me in and out of my socks and shirtings. But if there's one thing he isn't, it's liable to knuckle under. These sort of spats rear their ugly heads every now and then, and there is seldom an umbrage abandoned by Jeeves when he has taken issue with my personal ornament. I myself can fuss around and refrain from a cowing down with the best of them; here a mustache, there a pink pocket-square, and before all this scraping pennies business I'd had my eye on a certain moss green and lemon yellow scarf from Bon Monsieur's that I just knew would sour Jeeves's appetite the minute it reached his sagacious baby browns. I resent the view so widely held in my circle of acquaintances that I'm a mere 'hey, you' in the home, bowing to Jeeves's behests like a Hollywood yes man*, and I find it difficult to tend to a bosom nurture when in the vice of feudal reasoning.

But here is the nub: If Jeeves were to say "jump, sir," I may at first do just the reverse, prostrating myself on the floor in opposition, and he would go on saying 'very good, sir' in that tone of his. But once he'd subsequently kept me as Galahad may have kept unto Guinevere, or I recalled with a deep feeling the staunch ones he's pulled in the past, I would pop out to the chemists to purchase an ounce of Jim's Jumping Serum at no little cost to me, the better to defy his expectations and win his respect. Thus is the demise of the mustache and the pink pocket square. Harken, if you will, to the instance of the 'mental negligence' he once purported me to possess. I tried my ducedest to prove this notion ill-conceived, shuddering to think he felt my mental abilities so out of gas (never mind that I failed rather miserably.)
The point is, I may be a reluctant sheep, but a sheep I am nonetheless, and when I succumb to the shepherd's herding, I do so wishing for to prove to the shepherd he's as good as Abraham to me. 'Though he be but a valet?' you say? No, nonny nonny, I tell you! Jeeves is my teacher and my dearest ally- nay! Friend. One must not disgrace my apotheosis of him, to turn a phrase of his own.

Nevertheless, I have my limits.

The prospect of cowing down now was but a vague, gnat-like infringement upon the western horizon at sunset. This affair was no purple sock. Vestments, facial accoutrements, Banjoleles and China Vases are all one thing, but a fellow's right to sing is entirely another. I mean to say, I was being very well assaulted left and right by how do you do's! How do you do's were coming at me like aged produce from the Wednesday Matinee audience at a village production of Spindrift! I deserved to live the little life I had to the fullest and no 'injudiciousness's' would stymie me.

I did my utmost to decorate the room with a clammy nippy whatsit for Jeeves to enter upon. I might not have bothered, however, for he soon upon entered with enough of his own clammy nippy whatsits to satisfy the small Chelmsford snow goose contingent. He had also brought with him the gown and was unlacing the back. I unpeeled the garb I had on and moved to step into the skirt like I had done earlier.
"No, sir, not the undershirt, it may incommode the pinning of the bodice."
"Oh, right ho." I obeyed, presenting a rarer species of nakedness to our dressing routine. Contra-something to my previous technique, he lifted it over my head and pulled it down me as I stuck through my arms. If it weren't for the bleak midwinter of the warring, strong-willed men's minds wafting Indus to the pole, the fact of it being women's garments may have felt just a bit vulnerable and rather jolly intimate, and perhaps I may have procured a blush or two. But because of the bleak midwinter it mayn't have been and I mayn't have done, one will sadly never know the truth.
"You see, Jeeves?" I said as he stepped around to inspect, "Much too large, what?"
"It is for a lady of considerably more substance than yourself, sir, yes."
"Curable, you think?
"Assuredly, sir."
He began pinning me in about the shoulders. There was a stiff, crispy quiet. It felt depicted, as though the act itself were a show. Like I was performing for him. A tough audience.
He pinched a bit of fabric in the underarm and I shivered compulsively. He went on underarm pinning and I squinched my toes to keep from buckling. I wanted to tell him not to go about it so ticklishly but something about pride and the tingle making its way around my midsection stoppered this criticism. I was on the verge of convulsing and a collapse of will not to howl like the moon was fat and the brethren slain in the fields of yore when at last he moved to the waist and the back, and I let out a little puff of relief. He stilled for the briefest of moments, or at least it seemed like a stilling- Maybe because he thought he had popped me like a balloon with one of his pins. He resumed instantaneously, however.
Eventually he came back to the front, where he came in to pin up the bosom of the gown with that attractive, professional nonchalance that makes him such a wonder. It's not as if I expected him to cower in fear, but, well, you know. The circumstances weren't known for innocence of any possible smirching done upon propriety.
"Er, I think- Marion propounded…"
"You would have me fill the chest, sir?"
"Yes, well, only because she- M- Marion that is-" I was interrupted as he gently reached a hand down the inside of my front with the measuring tape. No chance of restraining a shiver now; my chest caved in a notch and against my better judgment so did my lungs, issuing forth a squeak with the touch of his distinguished knuckle on that sensitive spot of a man's chesticle, amidships the breastplate and the heart. But as soon as it was on, it was off. One moment there, the next nothing doing, if you know what I mean.
He leaned down and pulled the curls out of the bag.
"Is this yours, sir?"
"It's a wig, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir."
"It's mine, yes." To illustrate this I pulled it from his wilted tenure and placed it to the crown.
"See?"
"Very good, sir." Of this too he disapproves, I deciphered.
"What's wrong with it, Jeeves? Spare no detail."
"Nothing, sir."
"I can see it in your glands, Jeeves, you're lying to me."
"No, sir." He was, I could see it in his glands.
I had a look in the mirror. I looked absolutely ravishing.
"Very well then," I said with a light and airy french sort of tone, knocking off the wig and stuffing it in the bag.
"Might I ask, sir, if the establishment or producer, or indeed Ms. Wardour herself procured a license to public cross-dressing for the act?"
"No. Is it strictly necessary?"
"I would go as far as to say imperative, sir."
"Well, I'll ask Marion," I sniffed
Jeeves unclasped the back of the gown and I stuck up my arms so he could pull it over my head. He did so slowly as to avoid sticking me with the pins, which I thought was decent of him, considering the water like a stone and snow fallen on snow...on snow on snow...and snow on- so on, I mean.
"Right, well, if that's all, Jeeves, I'll be tanning the hide for bed. Long day ahead, if you catch my drift."
"Very good, sir. Goodnight, sir."
I did such things, and rolled into the platform of wrappings for the dreamless.

I say dreamless for it was indeed untrodden by those callous fellows which conjure up pink priests and giant spoons. I am myself an admiring customer of sweet dreams, and when deprived of them find things notably less bumpsadasie and joy cometh in the morning. However, what a lack of dreams will do for you is situate you always several steps closer to the woken state. When, therefore, I woke with a start at the peak of a distinctly crashy noise coming from the living room, with me it was but the work of a moment to remove myself from the throws of slumber and stand at the door, ears flapping.

I heard a voice like a voice. A woman's voice, I mean. I had a trod through the mental maze of beazels who might or mightn't deem to encroach upon the Wooster home, but none of their voices matched this one. This voice was gruff, hampered over time by a sardonic manner. But a sardonic manner which had been sucking recently on a lozenge of compassion.
"Oh! sorry, Reg. Sorry about that. I meant to drop it casually. To show I take this problem seriously. Very Sorry."

Reg? Reg? I brooded vigorously on whether or not I knew anyone by that name, but nothing came to surface.

Just then Jeeves's voice rolled in under the door with the morning mists.
"Thank you, Joan. Your kindness means a great deal."
"Not at all. Quite the contrary," the compassionate and sardonic voice answered, "It'll be good for us to get this favor I owe you out of the way. I've been worried sick you'd never ask anything of me and I'd be stuck the rest of my life convinced you were one good turn short of holy enlightenment."
"Very kind of you to say, though, as you know, enlightenment cannot be reached through the aid of others. Excuse me."
There was a pause and a quiet bit of foot shuffling, and I slunk back to bed in case Jeeves would be in with the breakfast tray, which was indeed where he very presently was.
"Good morning, sir." This introduction came straight from the deep freeze, that place of recent and considerable reserve. "Good morning, Jeeves. Do we have burglars?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I very well heard strange noises without, what do you make of that?"
"Miss Joan Valentine is in the sitting room, sir."
"Early callers, Jeeves? What have we said of them?"
"I apologize, sir, Miss Valentine wished for audience with yourself but I explained to her your waking hours, and she will be leaving shortly to return later in the day."
"Who else?"
"There is no one else, sir." Odd, I thought, that Reg should be unaccounted for.
"Who is this Joan Valentine, Jeeves?"
"Miss Valentine is the fiancé of the friend with whom I am staying, sir. She is coincidentally a performer at the same establishment as yourself."
"Coincidentally, yes, Certainly a coinkydink, Jeeves. Certainly one of those."
"Certainly, sir."
I flashed a look at him, one of my flashy ones that lets on I have some sort of a suspicion or an apprehension towards what he'll have floated. He made no move to repost, and I was forced to continue the interrogation.
"What did she want to speak to me about?"
"She wished to request an escort to and from the venue in your company, sir, to relieve her fiancé Mr. Marson of the function, as he has taken a writing commission for the North Dorsetshire police department. As you are also performing the weekend nights, she says that your aid in accompanying her would be of great relief. The neighborhood is dangerous for a woman at that late hour, sir."
"Dashed true, I'm sure. Since when has Miss Valentine performed at Moushot's dining room?"
"She was a featured performer in the 14 and 15 seasons, but took a spate away from the stage to commit to her writing. She has only returned very recently, sir."
"I see."
"Yes, sir."
"What sort of act?"
"Dancing, sir."
"Was she dancing in the drawing room just now?"
"No, sir."
"Well, what about this distinctly crashy noise?"
"Crashy noise, sir?"
I peered deeply into his eyes; A fruitless endeavor as you may well know. If he would withhold, let him withhold.
"Nothing, nothing. If she has not yet left I hope she will do so soon. I am going to get another few hours in, thank you Jeeves."
"Very good, sir."
He took away the breakfast things and I set myself in for exactly that.

However, that I had chased away slumber so effectively that after a halfhearted ten minutes of struggling to keep my eyes from popping open at every creak or roostle, I sat back up and rang the bell for Jeeves to bring them back in and draw me my bath.

I met this Joan Valentine on my way out. She was standing by the front door scanning the horizon like one of those seekers of the wand of death or something. Only just escaping collision, I gave a start then a double take. This girl was strong stuff. That is to say, she was lovely in a dark, scotchy way that reminded me of some filly with a phlegmatic leak from my past whom I couldn't place but remembered infatuating intensely over. Not that I was at all inclined to infatuate over this girl.
"Oh! Hullo. Would you be Mr. Wooster?"
"What ho, what ho! And you Miss Valentine?"
"Yes, that's me. Are you going out?"
"Just a short jaunt."
"You wouldn't mind if I followed you around, would you? I wanted to get you this morning but Reg said you didn't wake till ten. So here I was waiting till ten, or possibly even eleven depending on how long you took to do whatever it is you do in the morning that you do." She was blunt, like an instrument. I liked her immensely.
"By all means. Lead on, Miss Valentine."
"Thank you. Less of this Miss, stuff, if you please, just Joan will do."
"Of course, Joan. Whatever you please, Joan."
She crinkled her nose in a way that indicated she thought there was something funny with me.
"From what he said of your routine I'd expected you more disgruntled."
"Rot! I am supremely gruntled! You will generally find me most pliant in the hand of an effort to gruntle!"
"Will I? I'm glad to hear this."
"I'm glad you're glad."
"He also said you had a kind crust. I can see that one too."
"Did he?" Nice fellow, this Reg.
"Well, not those words exactly, but the gist of it is in there. Are you fond of driving?"
"I can appreciate a trundle as much as the next man."
"You don't have to be. I only ask because whether or not you do has a bearing on a favor I want to ask of you."
"Oh, ah?"
"Yes," There was a short pause in the conv. while we rounded the corner and perceived the release of some antique churchgoers issuing forth from the chapel.
"Oh, crumbs," said Joan, pale and faltering.
"Eh?"
"That green shrew in amongst those wrinkles over there. She's the living spit of my great aunt Agatha."
"Great Scott, you don't mean to say you've got an aunt Agatha too, do you?"
"No time to bond, pretend I've just purchased this umbrella off of you and go back the way we came, I'll meet you round the other side." She was giving me a broad smile in disagreement to her frenetic tone of voice, but it fit the bill for the encounter she was describing. Not fully understanding the plot but feeling for any poor soul enduring the unrelenting threat of nepocide, or in this case nepticide (if only Aubrey Upjohn could hear me now!) I did my best impression of a purveyor of umbrellas, returning her own and accepting the coins she placed in my hand. I then bowed briefly in thanks and promptly marched back in the direction we came, releasing her into the churchgoing throng.
We met at the propounded corner directly.
"Gosh, that was rather thrilling. Did she swallow it do you think?"
"She wasn't my aunt." "Oh, ah. For the best. Bit of a relief, even."
"No doubt about that. If she had seen me walking alone with a man who wasn't my fiancé she would...she'd..."
"Snicker Snack you? Reveal the hatchet on the alter? Reproduce the ordeal with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? Take a-"
"Please." She swallowed thickly, reaching out to steady herself on a passing lamppost.
"Sorry," I resisted the urge to pat her on the head. "I feel deeply for your lot, young shrimp, my aunt is the same in nature as well as temperament."
"That's alright- she's a rather recent acquisition as it happens. It's a woeful story."
"We could change the subject if you'd like, what?"
"Thanks awfully."
We resumed walking and I struck up a new tune.
"Would you mind if I ask," I asked, "This favor- might it involve a cavalier? A car? The locale Moushot's Dining Room? A latish hour or a sticky neighborhood or something? Or something?"
"Well, yes, those are the salient points. Did Reg tell you?" "I've been meaning to ask of whom this Reg is that you speak? I'm sorry not to know him, he seems like one of those ones one ought to know."
"Reginald. Your valet."
"My hm?"
"Jeeves, you ass."
"Oh, ah." I was dumbsucked.
"Sorry for calling you an ass. I don't think you're an ass, I'm only surprised."
"No, no, think nothing of it, no one else does. I say, is that really his maiden name? Reginald?"
"Well, yes, but the only one you'll hear calling him Reginald is his uncle. He's just Reggie to everybody."
"Really?! By Jove." I was dumbsucked yet again. She was giving me the scrutanious eye and I felt a winge of guilt. Here I was living with the fellow and not a waking moment had I given to thought on the nature of what his first name might be, let alone to the odds that he might have one. So this was the reg from the crashing incident. There a sinister lapse going which I'm guessing Joan lent me so that I could soak up this information, which was baffling in quality and time to soak seemed something I needed a great deal of. But I think eventually she bored, placing a clement hand on my arm.
"So, Mr. Wooster."
"Hallo?"
"What do you think? About the ride? I'd be awfully grateful."
"Eh? Oh, oh..." I'm not sure why I was on the fence, maybe some lingering resentment vis. suspicion of an ulterior motive from Jeeves, but there wasn't much I could see from where I sat and it was pretty uncomfortable on the gams, so I hopped off it. Besides, I liked this girl a lot. lots of lots, even. And it was only preux.
"It is a responsibility I would receive with honor, Joan Valentine," I said.
"Wonderful," she grinned.
"By all worldly means," I said.
"Thank you," She replied.
"Absolutely," I said.
"Very much," she rejoined.
"Any bosom of Jeeves," I punctuated, "is a bosom of mine."
She grinned again and patted me on the back like a brick layer tapping a brick into place. "I think we'll be good friends, Mr. Wooster."
"You can call me Bertie if you'd rather."
"Very well, Bertie."

Here the jaunt seemed to peeter out as we approached the block which contained the flat. A straggling thought bubbled up and I stopped and gently pulled her to the side.
"I have rather a favor to ask you, as it happens."
"Oh yes?."
"Can you tell me, has Jeeves…susurrated with you or your…your…"
"Ashe?"
"Yes, thank you, your Ashe, on topics which are relevant to the affairs at hand in re…"
"In re Moushots?"
"Precisely, in re Moushots."
"No," She shook her head.
"Nothing? No chaste tongue of disapproval?"
"We haven't had much time to chat, frankly. What with his odd hours we've really only seen him in the early morning before he's slipped off into the silence."
"He does slip."
"Much so. He's such a delicate mass," She sighed.
"Yes, well…" I didn't have the heart to stuff in an amorous sentiment on the subject as the disposition between Jeeves and self was still shivering and calling bitterly for the hot water bottle.
"You'll tell me if he does say something, won't you? To be frank I've been a bit pipped with him lately and I want to make sure he isn't ruffing up one of his gags where he plots a mission through the archipelago behind my back and I'm left fighting off seagulls at the docks until he returns with the capture of 40 innocent nomadic children, a polar bear, and my aunt Dahlia at the helm, from an escapade that has been under my name the entire time and suddenly I'm a spurious phony and the world has my neck within an inch of the cheap and chippy chopper, all so he might put off the marital iron grill from a filly I didn't much care for being wed to who is an advocate against the ice caps!"
"Golly." She was dumsucked.
"Seems a bit harsh, but if you didn't know his true nature already, there it is. He's an absolute god, you know, but sometimes he gets these ideas that I don't have the will not to be bent into whatever shape he has the hots for under the guise of my betterment."
"Crikey."
"Yes, well, you'll tell me if he's mentioned anything of that sort, won't you?" I gave her a pleading look.
"Of course I will tell you, Bertie."
"Thanks, old fleck."
And there we parted merrily till the eventide with the goodbye and the chooff chooff.

I think it's best to sally along the following few hours, for, as some fellow called Khayyam on whom's legacy Jeeves has been entrusted would say, the moving finger writes and having writ some stuff not worth poor reader's tired eyes. After a meal and a few stiff, terse, and pregnant silences at the flat, it was with a chilled but loftier spirit that I hopped in the car, stopped at Joan's for Joan, and we bum's rushed to Moushot's. A stagehand ushered me roofily to our dressing room, where a suited and swell-looking Marion hankered down with a look of motherly adoration and a handful of earrings. She helped me dress, we ran through the program, and as she added the finishing touches to the damask cheek, at long last to our ears reached the sound of an audience making good with the tables and chairs.

Joan was on first, so I popped to the wings to watch the first couple numbers. It was impressive. She had a kind of blasé glow about her that sucked the attention off of the other six or seven girls entirely. In the moves she lagged behind by a smidgen, which to some might have been attributed to a lack of repertory knowledge, however, as a member of the artistic cognoscenti, I knew it to be a effective stylistic mode to set one apart, and commended her on it.

Our act was last in the lineup of three, and followed a high-pitched man with a banjolele, for whom I seethed with envy. The second we walked on there was an appreciative cacophony of mulesque breying. Our opening bit was formed of Mae Western comedic flavor, but with the classic gag where two French fillies speak their native tongue with such thick accents they can't understand a word the other says. After that, we dissolved into our first two songs then switched places so that Marion could play the inside of the piano like a harp while I performed Dying French Swan (capping it off with a collapsed, exaggerated pose that reminded the audience of...sensitive possessions which do not hesitate to protest under the abusive positions that would otherwise be performed by someone unpossessing of those possessions.) The lights then dimmed to bring about an atmosphere intimé for C'est Une Nuit Pour Rêve de Toi Dans Mon Petite Chambre Rose with Marion as a Romeo-esc thrower of undesired roses which met a sad twist of fate under the heal of my shoe, and then the solos, which sent the audience into a kind of giggly reverie. We finished with our theme J'aime Tout ce Qu'elle Aime, succeeded by an encore of the coda, apropos rapacious request, then toddled off.

I hardly had a moment to breathe once we reached the dressing room before Marion swept me into a kind of gay folk dance, grasping my hands and swinging my arms around like a cider press.
"Oh, Clotilde! You glimmering star!"
"Oh, come, come, not half. All you, really."
"Silence!" she chirruped, twirling me. There was a polite knock at the door. Joan peeped her head in before we could bid enter.
"Good show! Good show!" She grinned.
"Thanks awfully, old girl, you were cracking yourself."
"Pish." She shook her head. "Now, I hate to rush but if you don't mind we really must croak before the plug uglies make it to the stage door."
"Ah, quite, give me a minute to change. Two ticks-"
"Erm, would you mind awfully bundling up and getting it all off at home? Sorry. There's just...someone I'd really very much rather not see. If that's alright with you."
"Of course, of course, of course. Hopscotch."
"If you're worried about flatties, don't be, no one will notice. It's a good disguise, you're very convincing."
I grabbed the soup and fish off the dressing screen, Marion kissed me on the cheek, then Joan whooshed me through the hall and out the stage door- not the main one, another one, into a dark alleyway where you would be sure to see a cat or a covert and exotic rendezvous.
"This way," She lead me to where we'd parked a few blocks away. Upon reaching there was a moment of fuss as I pulled in my skirts and shawls to prevent them being trapped in the door. I caught Joan doing that seeking like a lighthouse for the wand of death thing again in a casual way as if she didn't really think it was there but thought she'd just give it a scan anyways.
At last I started the car and pulled out around the corner.

The drive was short. The thrill of the adenine...of the adeline...the edge-crinoline...that exciting gas you get from doing exciting things- was still coursing through me like lots of rabbits. I'm afraid it affected my sense of speed because it had barely been five minutes before I was screeching to a halt outside Joan's door. We bid a cheery good evening with and she biffed off into the night.

I made good time with the outer door and the stairs to the flat. I thanked God aloud for the fact that there would be no doorman or lift operator to whom to explain away the pink gown and curls, so in so being all right with the world, it was only natural that my fortitude go undeterred in this best of all possible worlds, despite whatever spanner of contention I was anticipating Jeeves throw in the works.

I stepped inside buoyantly. Jeeves appeared for assistance.
"Good evening, Jeeves."
"Good evening, sir." He glanced over me, a slight to which I knew must be attributed the question of why the hell I was still a dame.
"I trust opening night went smoothly, sir?"
"Don't try and pretend you care, Jeeves, it was magical! Tralala!"
"Very good, sir. Might I ask the cause of why you have not changed out of your costume, sir?"
"Very well observed Jeeves. We had to rush and avoid the crowds. So very many fans, you know. Don't worry, Joan and I were perfectly safe."
"Very good, sir." There was that ice pick approaching the wall of fortitude against the weathered storm- Ah, might he try, but he could not knock down!
"Might you try, Jeeves, but you cannot knock down!"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I will not take any icy soupiness from you tonight! My good cheer is worth the strength of one thousand johnnies!"
"Indeed, sir?"
"One hundred thousand!" I poured myself a drink, feeling self-sufficient, and drank deeply. Jeeves eyed the pink lipstick mark on the glass and it made me feel sort of rummy.
"Well, That's that. I suppose I ought to change, oughtn't I?" I put with a certain reluctance. "And that's not out of a loss of will, mind you, I only state the facts."
"Indeed, sir."
We moved to the bedroom and I started on the jewelry.
"Perhaps we might remove the stage paint first, sir, in the event that it stain the garments."
"Oh, right ho."
He ran the hot tap and filled up a basin.
"If you would please to seat yourself at the writing desk so I might reach with more efficacy, sir." I did so. He set the basin down and dipped the cloth into its depths then wrung it out. I tilted my face up for his convenience. He began with the forehead. It was warm and cushy and my soul was immediately awash with a balm most salving. I felt a twinge of the old kinship for the man, despite his lithic demeanor.
I always relish a shave with Jeeves. Generally he has the delicate hand of a porcelain glazer, and treats the cheek with just the same gentle tenderness. However, now he refrained from touching me to angle my face, his right arm to himself, bent at his side, supporting the drape of a second towel. It was jolly unfair that I was feeling like Jackie boy among the leaves so green O' in the company of such a dark vapour. It wasn't enough to sit here in my demimondish regalia looking spectacular to his dissent, I needed to serve further dinner courses of defiance. To play on him as if he were a stringed instrument.
I slowly turned my face towards the side which Jeeves was working on. His left arm followed, respectively, still only cotton making contact, until he could no longer reach where he worked, and switched sides. I repeated the exercise and he switched sides again. The third time I moved a little quicker and added more downward tilt. His silence was telling. The first inkling of success; I forced his left hand, the one he had been using, to light again on my forehead with the towel, this time to gently nudge me backwards. So naturally I continued in this vein of backwards until I was slumped over the arm of the chair, top of my head as close to the ground as I could get it without actually falling onto the floor. Which wasn't very close. At any rate, not wanting to dampen the young master's curls, Jeeves placed his right palm, the empty one, to the back of my head and heaved ho. What a feat! I felt like a conqueror- perhaps a William or a Valdemar. Thrilling in the small success, I tried my luck once more, flinging caution to the wind and sending my chin down to my chest again.
"If you please, sir," he broke the silence. He knew I had been playing a game with him. His fingers found my chin and gently lifted my head to where we'd started off. And he left them there.
I acted martyr by reserving my mirthless guffaw to a curling lip and a devious squint. He didn't want to play, but by my definition I had won worthy of a pat on the back by a William or a Valdemar.
His expression was, know you, not at home, as in, completely vacant. I lost sight of it as he began to rub the color from my eyelids. I had a thought suddenly that his expression would be a good deal different when unseen. You can't go your whole life a vacant plain, you know. And something along the lines of 'if a valet makes a face unbeknownst to his employer, does he really make a face?'. I became so desperate to peep that I opened my right eye for a moment, leaving it vulnerable to cotton towels, and shot back as he, unprepared for this eventuality, stuck one square in the pupil.
"Ah!" I cried.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I was unaware your eye was open."
"By gad, man, you very well could have guessed!"
"I am sorry, sir, please forgive my carelessness." I could tell he didn't want any. Forgiveness, I mean. Not really his fault, granted.
"It's quite alright Jeeves." I blinked rapidly, trying to restore some crumb of moisture. Before I succumbed to towel-blindness, I had managed to catch nary a split second of absolutely anything. He was complete abstraction. Well, small potatoes, for I knew that inside, deep down, he may very well be pipped to the marrow. I finished blinking and bad him continue.

Before long I was resealed in the usual mortal envelope and had sat myself down in the sitting room with a nightcap and the climactic end of my rex west when I perceived Jeeves drifting through the background.
"Oh, Jeeves,"
"Yes, sir?"
"You might fill up the decanter with some more 10' Mamont when you have the chance, I've just knocked back the last of it."
"I'm afraid we are out of the 10' Mamont, sir."
"Well, brandy will do I suppose."
"We are out of the brandy as well, sir."
"Oh. Could you run and nab some when you've got the chance then?"
He cleared his undoubtedly tidy throat.
"Yes, Jeeves?"
"If I might take the liberty in saying, sir, cash flow this week has only just covered grocery expenses, with no expendable for liquor."
"No expendable?"
"No, sir."
I was shocked. No liquor? This was extraordinary.
"No liquor, Jeeves?"
"No, sir."
"No wine, even?"
"No, sir."
"I'm due my first pay on Monday, what about then?"
"I would not advise the purchase of drink until a more marked accruement of funds is recommenced. It may take longer until decanted drink would fit under the budget."
"Is it really so bad?"
"It could be said to be so, sir."
"Is there not some other luxury we can forgo?"
"Perhaps, sir. However, drink would be the most wise of the few."
I felt like he'd just shut the shutters on me. Surely an allowance could be made for snifters at the Drones...or even the occasional Whiskey and Potash at the old tavern around the corner. Perhaps one could behoove to stoop, really ingratiate oneself in the lower elemental life, and find out which of the neighbors concocted in the bath tub. But if the belt were really so tight perhaps it would make no difference where it came from- but no, this didn't make sense.
"That doesn't make sense, damnit."
"If you desire to look over the books, I would gladly fetch them, sir. I might show you the outline of rationalization and accounts?"
"Well, I- no, but I…" He'd dropped me, wet and flopping cod-wise at an impasse. I may have had some moments of mistrust but I couldn't very well say yes to a thing like that. It would be downright fresh.
"If I might add, it would be judicious to lessen your intake of drink as it is, sir, some have found the habit extremely damaging."
At first I was affronted by this comment a little, but the reasoning went to the sticking place pretty quickly. For all the lack of faith I'd been peddling, I still had this damn sheep in me, bah-ing with a quiet despondency, a bleat of submission. It did make sense, really, given the condish. Shame. Perhaps he was playing the game after all; It felt a bit like he'd won me over with his sharp, piscine reasoning.
"Oh well. Drink in our boots may not be, but fighting, fighting, what?" I sighed.
"Indeed, sir," he said, the glimmer of victory in the polish on his shoes.

*)direct quote)