'The evidence points in that direction. At dinner last night I noticed that he was refusing Anatole's best, while she looked wan and saintlike and crumbled bread. And talking of Anatole's best, what I wanted to tell you about L. P. Runkle was that zero hour is approaching. I am crouching for my spring and have strong hopes that Tuppy will soon be in the money.'

I clicked the tongue. Nobody could be keener than I on seeing Tuppy dip into L. P. Runkle's millions, but this was no time to change the subject.

'Never mind about Tuppy for the moment. Concentrate on the sticky affairs of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.'

'Wilberforce,' she murmured, as far as a woman of her outstanding lung power could murmur. 'Did I ever tell you how you got that label? It was your father's doing. The day before you were lugged to the font looking like a minor actor playing a bit part in a gangster film he won a packet on an outsider in the Grand National called that, and he insisted on you carrying on the name. Tough on you, but we all have our cross to bear. Your Uncle Tom's second name is Portarlington, and I came within an ace of being christened Phyllis.'

I rapped her sharply on the top-knot with a paper-knife of Oriental design, the sort that people in novels of suspense are always getting stabbed in the back with.

'Don't wander from the res. The fact that you nearly got christened Phyllis will, no doubt, figure in your autobiography, but we need not discuss it now. What we are talking about is the ghastly peril that confronts me if the Madeline-Spode axis blows a fuse.'

'You mean that if she breaks her engagement, you will have to fill the vacuum?'

'Exactly.'

'She won't. Not a chance.'

'But you said –'

'I only wanted to emphasize my warning to you not to keep on taking gnats out of Madeline's eyes. Perhaps I overdid it.'

'You chilled me to the marrow.'

'Sorry I was so dramatic. You needn't worry. They've only had a lovers' tiff such as occurs with the mushiest couples.'

'What about?'

'How do I know? Perhaps he queried her statement that the stars were God's daisy chain.'

I had to admit that there was something in this theory. Madeline's breach with Gussie Fink-Nottle had been caused by her drawing his attention to the sunset and saying sunsets always made her think of the Blessed Damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven, and he said, 'Who?' and she said, 'The Blessed Damozel', and he said, 'Never heard of her', adding that sunsets made him sick, and so did the Blessed Damozel. A girl with her outlook would be bound to be touchy about stars and daisy chains.

'It's probably over by now,' said the ancestor. 'All the same, you'd better keep away from the girl. Spode's an impulsive man. He might slosh you.'

'He said he would.'

'He used the word slosh?'

'No, but he assured me he would butter me over the front lawn and dance on the remains with hobnailed boots.'

'Much the same thing. So I would be careful if I were you. Treat her with distant civility. If you see any more gnats headed in her direction, hold their coats and wish them luck, but restrain the impulse to mix in.'

'I will.'

'I hope I have relieved your fears?'

'You have, old flesh-and-blood.'

'Then why the furrows in your brow?'

'Oh, those? It's Ginger.'

'What's Ginger?'

'He's why my brow is furrowed.'

It shows how profoundly the thought of Madeline Bassett possibly coming into circulation again had moved me that it was only now that I had remembered Bingley and what he had said about the certainty of Ginger finishing as an also-ran in the election. I burned with shame and remorse that I should have allowed my personal troubles to make me shove him down to the foot of the agenda paper in this scurvy manner. Long ere this I ought to have been inviting Aunt Dahlia's views on his prospects. Not doing so amounted to letting a pal down, a thing I pride myself on never being guilty of. Little wonder that I b.'d with s. and r.

I hastened to make amends, if those are what you make when you have done the dirty on a fellow you love like a brother.

'Did I ever mention a bloke called Bingley to you?'

'If you did. I've forgotten.'

'He was my personal attendant for a brief space when Jeeves and I differed about me playing the banjolele. That time when I had a cottage down at Chufnell Regis.'

'Oh yes, he set it on fire, didn't he?'

'While tight as an owl. It was burned to a cinder, as was my banjolele.'

'I've got him placed now. What about him?'

'He lives in Market Snodsbury. I met him this morning and happened to mention that I was canvassing for Ginger.'

'If you can call it canvassing.'

'And he told me I was wasting my time. He advised me to have a substantial bet on Ma McCorkadale. He said Ginger hadn't an earthly.'

'He's a fool.'

'I must say I've always thought so, but he spoke as if he had inside information.'

'What on earth information could he have? An election isn't a horse race where you get tips from the stable cat. I don't say it may not be a close thing, but Ginger ought to win all right. He has a secret weapon.'

'Repeat that, if you wouldn't mind. I don't think I got it.'

'Ginger defies competition because he has a secret weapon.'

'Which is?'

'Spode.'

'Spode?'

'My lord Sidcup. Have you ever heard him speak?'

'I did just now.'

'In public, fool.'

'Oh, in public. No, I haven't.'

'He's a terrific orator, as I told you, only you've probably forgotten.'

This seemed likely enough to me. Spode at one time had been one of those Dictators, going about at the head of a band of supporters in footer shorts shouting 'Heil Spode', and to succeed in that line you have to be able to make speeches.

'You aren't fond of him, nor am I, but nobody can deny that he's eloquent. Audiences hang on his every word, and when he's finished cheer him to the echo.'

I nodded. I had had the same experience myself when singing 'The Yeoman's Wedding Song' at village concerts. Two or three encores sometimes, even when I blew up in the words and had to fill in with 'Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, I hurry along'. I began to feel easier in my mind. I told her this, and she said 'Your what?'

'You have put new heart into me, old blood relation,' I said, ignoring the crack. 'You see, it means everything to him to win this election.'

'Is he so bent on representing Market Snodsbury in the Westminster menagerie?'

'It isn't that so much. Left to himself, I imagine he could take Parliament or leave it alone. But he thinks Florence will give him the bum's rush if he loses.'

'He's probably right. She can't stand a loser.'

'So he told me. Remember what happened to Percy Gorringe.'

'And others. England is strewn with ex-fiances whom she bounced because they didn't come up to her specifications. Dozens of them. I believe they form clubs and societies.'

'Perhaps calling themselves the Old Florentians.'

'And having an annual dinner!'

We mused on Florence for awhile; then she said she ought to be going to confer with Anatole about dinner tonight, urging him to dish up something special. It was vital, she said, that he should excel his always high standard.

'I was speaking, just now, when you interrupted me and turned my thoughts to the name Wilberforce, of L. P. Runkle.'

'You said you had an idea he might be going to cooperate.'

'Exactly. Have you ever seen a python after a series of hearty meals?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'It gets all softened up. It becomes a kindlier, gentler, more lovable python. And if I am not greatly mistaken, the same thing is happening to L. P. Runkle as the result of Anatole's cooking. You saw him at dinner last night.'

'Sorry, no, I wasn't looking. Every fibre of my being was concentrated on the foodstuffs. He would have repaid inspection, would he? Worth seeing, eh?'