Right Ho, Jeeves

But after I had been splashing about in the porcelain for a bit, composure began to return. I have always found that in moments of heart-bowed-downness there is nothing that calms the bruised spirit like a good go at the soap and water. I don’t say I actually sang in the tub, but there were times when it was a mere spin of the coin whether I would do so or not. The spiritual anguish induced by that tactless speech had become noticeably lessened. The discovery of a toy duck in the soap dish, presumably the property of some former juvenile visitor, contributed not a little to this new and happier frame of mind. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t played with toy ducks in my bath for years, and I found the novel experience most invigorating. For the benefit of those interested, I may mention that if you shove the thing under the surface with the sponge and then let it go, it shoots out of the water in a manner calculated to divert the most careworn. Ten minutes of this and I was enabled to return to the bedchamber much more the old merry Bertram. Jeeves was there, laying out the dinner disguise. He greeted the young master with his customary suavity. “Good evening, sir.” I responded in the same affable key. “Good evening, Jeeves.” “I trust you had a pleasant drive, sir.” “Very pleasant, thank you, Jeeves. Hand me a sock or two, will you?”