P SMITH rose courteously as she entered.
“My dear Miss Clarkson,” he said, “if you can spare me a moment of your valuable time . . .”
“Good gracious!” said Eve. “How extraordinary!”
“A singular coincidence,” agreed Psmith.
“You never gave me time to thank you for the umbrella,” said Eve reproachfully. “You must have thought me awfully rude. But you took my breath away.”
“My dear Miss Clarkson, please do not . . .”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Aren’t you Miss Clarkson either?”
“Of course I’m not.”
“Then,” said Psmith, “I must start my quest all over again. These constant checks are trying to an ardent spirit. Perhaps you are a young bride come to engage her first cook?”
“No. I’m not married.”
“Good!”
Eve found his relieved thankfulness a little embarrassing. In the momentary pause which followed his remark, Enquiries entered alertly.
“Miss Clarkson will see you now, sir.”
“Leave us,” said Psmith with a wave of his hand. “We would be alone.”
[p. 71]Enquiries stared; then, awed by his manner and general appearance of magnificence, withdrew.
“I suppose really,” said Eve, toying with the umbrella, “I ought to give this back to you.” She glanced at the dripping window. “But it is raining rather hard, isn’t it?”
“Like the dickens,” assented Psmith.
“Then would you mind very much if I kept it till this evening?”
“Please do.”
“Thanks ever so much. I will send it back to you to-night if you will give me the name and address.”
Psmith waved his hand deprecatingly.
“No, no. If it is of any use to you, I hope that you will look on it as a present.”
“A present!”
“A gift,” explained Psmith.
“But I really can’t go about accepting expensive umbrellas from people. Where shall I send it?”
“If you insist, you may send it to the Hon. Hugo Walderwick, Drones Club, Dover Street. But it really isn’t necessary.”
“I won’t forget. And thank you very much, Mr. Walderwick.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Well, you said . . .”
“Ah, I see. A slight confusion of ideas. No, I am not Mr. Walderwick. And between ourselves I should hate to be. His is a very C3 intelligence. Comrade Walderwick is merely the man to whom the umbrella belongs.”
Eve’s eyes opened wide.
“Do you mean to say you gave me somebody else’s umbrella?”
[p. 72]“I had unfortunately omitted to bring my own out with me this morning.”
“I never heard of such a thing!”
“Merely practical Socialism. Other people are content to talk about the Redistribution of Property. I go out and do it.”
“But won’t he be awfully angry when he finds out it has gone?”
“He has found out. And it was pretty to see his delight. I explained the circumstances, and he was charmed to have been of service to you.”
The door opened again, and this time it was Miss Clarkson in person who entered. She had found Enquiries’ statement over the speaking-tube rambling and unsatisfactory, and had come to investigate for herself the reason why the machinery of the office was being held up.
“Oh, I must go,” said Eve, as she saw her. “I’m interrupting your business.”
“I’m so glad you’re still here, dear,” said Miss Clarkson. “I have just been looking over my files, and I see that there is one vacancy. For a nurse,” said Miss Clarkson with a touch of the apologetic in her voice.
“Oh, no, that’s all right,” said Eve. “I don’t really need anything. But thanks ever so much for bothering.”
She smiled affectionately upon the proprietress, bestowed another smile upon Psmith as he opened the door for her, and went out. Psmith turned away from the door with a thoughtful look upon his face.
“Is that young lady a nurse?” he asked.
“Do you want a nurse?” inquired Miss Clarkson, at once the woman of business.
“I want that nurse,” said Psmith with conviction.
[p. 73]“She is a delightful girl,” said Miss Clarkson with enthusiasm. “There is no one in whom I would feel more confidence in recommending to a position. She is a Miss Halliday, the daughter of a very clever but erratic writer, who died some years ago. I can speak with particular knowledge of Miss Halliday, for I was for many years an assistant mistress at Wayland House, where she was at school. She is a charming, warm-hearted, impulsive girl. . . . But you will hardly want to hear all this.”
“On the contrary,” said Psmith, “I could listen for hours. You have stumbled upon my favourite subject.”
Miss Clarkson eyed him a little doubtfully, and decided that it would be best to reintroduce the business theme.
“Perhaps, when you say you are looking for a nurse, you mean you need a hospital nurse?”
“My friends have sometimes suggested it.”
“Miss Halliday’s greatest experience has, of course, been as a governess.”
“A governess is just as good,” said Psmith agreeably.
Miss Clarkson began to be conscious of a sensation of being out of her depth.
“How old are your children, sir?” she asked.
“I fear,” said Psmith, “you are peeping into Volume Two. This romance has only just started.”
“I am afraid,” said Miss Clarkson, now completely fogged, “I do not quite understand. What exactly are you looking for?”
Psmith flicked a speck of fluff from his coat-sleeve.
“A job,” he said.
“A job!” echoed Miss Clarkson, her voice breaking in an amazed squeak.
[p. 74]Psmith raised his eyebrows.
“You seem surprised. Isn’t this a job emporium?”
“This is an Employment Bureau,” admitted Miss Clarkson.
“I knew it, I knew it,” said Psmith. “Something seemed to tell me. Possibly it was the legend ‘Employment Bureau’ over the door. And those framed testimonials would convince the most sceptical. Yes, Miss Clarkson, I want a job, and I feel somehow that you are the woman to find it for me. I have inserted an advertisement in the papers, expressing my readiness to undertake any form of employment, but I have since begun to wonder if after all this will lead to wealth and fame. At any rate, it is wise to attack the great world from another angle as well, so I come to you.”
“But you must excuse me if I remark that this application of yours strikes me as most extraordinary.”
“Why? I am young, active, and extremely broke.”
“But your—er—your clothes . . .”
Psmith squinted, not without complacency, down a faultlessly fitting waistcoat, and flicked another speck of dust off his sleeve.
“You consider me well dressed?” he said. “You find me natty? Well, well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right. But consider, Miss Clarkson. If one expects to find employment in these days of strenuous competition, one must be neatly and decently clad. Employers look askance at a baggy trouser-leg. A zippy waistcoat is more to them than an honest heart. This beautiful crease was obtained with............