Halloa! This one’s an awfully rummy ordeal, but all’s well in the end as usual, thanks to Jeeves. I’m not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare—or, if not, it’s some equally brainy lad—who says that it’s always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping. There’s no doubt the man’s right. It’s absolutely that way with me. Take, for instance, the fairly rummy matter of Lady Malvern and her son Wilmot. A moment before they turned up, I was just thinking how thoroughly all right everything was.
"Rummy" seems correct, both in the metaphorical and in the literal sense. I mean, rum has not been mentioned expressly so far, but why assume that Lord Pershore should develop an aversion to that particular stuff? His tastes seem to be rather on the ecumenical side, as well as his intentions. The only ray of light for Bertie is the comforting absence of newts from the situation. I guess a smart move at this point would be to consign hat and tie in the hands of Jeeves and beg for his help...
"Rummy" seems correct, both in the metaphorical and in the literal sense. I mean, rum has not been mentioned expressly so far, but why assume that Lord Pershore should develop an aversion to that particular stuff? His tastes seem to be rather on the ecumenical side, as well as his intentions. The only ray of light for Bertie is the comforting absence of newts from the situation. I guess a smart move at this point would be to consign hat and tie in the hands of Jeeves and beg for his help...