Right Ho, Jeeves

She appeared not to have heard. “The boy,” I repeated, not wishing her to miss that one, “is the father of the man.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about this Glossop.” “I thought you said something about somebody’s father.” “I said the boy was the father of the man.” “What boy?” “The boy Glossop.” “He hasn’t got a father.” “I never said he had. I said he was the father of the boy--or, rather, of the man.” “What man?” I saw that the conversation had reached a point where, unless care was taken, we should be muddled. “The point I am trying to make,” I said, “is that the boy Glossop is the father of the man Glossop. In other words, each loathsome fault and blemish that led the boy Glossop to be frowned upon by his fellows is present in the man Glossop, and causes him--I am speaking now of the man Glossop--to be a hissing and a byword at places like the Drones, where a certain standard of decency is demanded from the inmates. Ask anyone at the Drones, and they will tell you that it was a black day for the dear old club when this chap Glossop somehow wriggled into the list of members. Here you will find a man who dislikes his face; there one who could stand his face if it wasn’t for his habits. But the universal consensus of opinion is that the fellow is a bounder and a tick, and that the moment he showed signs of wanting to get into the place he should have been met with a firm nolle prosequi and heartily blackballed.”