the bookshelf. He realised that his employer was in fractious mood, but knew that he was leaving him in capable hands.
Lord Emsworth turned from the window, out of which he had been gazing with a plaintive detachment.
"Look here, Connie," he grumbled feebly. "You know I hate literary fellows. It’s bad enough having them in the house, but when it comes to going to London to fetch 'em..."
He shuffled morosely. It was a perpetual grievance of his, this practice of his sister’s of collecting literary celebrities and dumping them down in the home for indeterminate visits. You never knew when she was going to spring another on you. Already since the beginning of the year he had suffered from a round dozen of the species at brief intervals; and at this very moment his life was being poisoned by the fact that Blandings was sheltering a certain Miss Aileen Peavey, the mere thought of whom was enough to turn the sunshine off as with a tap.
"Can’t stand literary fellows," proceeded his lordship. "Never could. And, by Jove, literary females are worse. Miss Peavey..." Here words temporarily failed the owner of Blandings. "Miss Peavey..." he resumed after an eloquent pause. "Who is Miss Peavey?"
"My dear Clarence," replied Lady Constance tolerantly, for the fine morning had made her mild and amiable, "if you do not know that Aileen is one of the leading poetesses of the younger school, you must be very ignorant."
"I don’t mean that. I know she writes poetry. I mean who is she? You suddenly produced her here like a rabbit out of a hat," said his lordship, in a tone of strong resentment. "Where did you find her?"
