Lord Emsworth and the Girl Friend
by P. G. Wodehouse
(Adapted book. Upper-Intermediate level)

The day was so warm, so fair, so wonderfully a thing of sunshine and blue skies and bird song that anyone who knew Clarence, Lord Emsworth, and knew also his liking for fine weather, would have imagined him going about the place on this summer morning with a bright smile and a happy heart. Instead of this, bent over the breakfast table, he was directing a look of violent hatred at a blameless fish on his plate. It was August Bank Holiday, and Blandings Castle on August Bank Holiday became, in his lordship’s opinion, unbearable.
This was the day when his park and grounds were filled with tents, toys, balls and paper bags; when a wave of farm workers and their crying children swallowed up those places of ancient peace. On August Bank Holiday he was not allowed to wander around his gardens in an old coat: he was made to dress like a gentleman and told to go out and be pleasant to the people. And in the cool of the quiet evening the same forces put him on a platform and made him give a speech. To a man with a day like that in front of him, fine weather was a bad joke.
His sister, Lady Constance Keeble, looked brightly at him over the coffeepot. ‘What a lovely morning!’ she said.
Lord Emsworth s misery deepened. He disliked being asked - by this woman of all women - to behave as if everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
‘Have you got your speech ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, make sure you learn it by heart this time and don’t keep stopping like you did last year.’
Lord Emsworth pushed his fish away. He had lost his desire for food.
‘And don’t forget you have to go to the village this morning to judge the garden competition.’
‘All right,’ said his lordship bad-temperedly. ‘I’ve not forgotten.’
‘I think I will come to the village with you. There are a number of London children here at the moment on a Fresh Air visit, and I must warn them to behave properly when they come to the Fete this afternoon. You know what London children are. McAllister says he found one of them in the gardens the other day, picking his flowers.’
At any other time the news of this behaviour would, no doubt, have affected Lord Emsworth deeply. But now his self-pity was so great that he did not even reply. He drank his coffee in the manner of a man who wished it was poison.
‘By the way,’ said Lady Constance. ‘McAllister was speaking to me last night about that new path through the trees. He seems to want it very much.’
‘Glug!’ said Lord Emsworth - which, as any student of language will tell you, is the sound which all lords make when struck to the soul while drinking coffee.
Concerning Glasgow, that great business and industrial city in Scotland, much has been written. The only thing about it which concerns the present writer, though, is the fact that its citizens are often cold, silent men who know what they want and intend to get it. Such a man was Angus McAllister, head gardener at Blandings Castle.
For years Angus McAllister had had as his chief desire the building of a path through a particularly famous group of the Castle’s trees. For years he had been bringing this plan to the notice of his employer, though a man from any other city would have been made uncomfortable by Lord Emsworth’s obvious dislike of the whole idea. And now, it seemed, the gardener had brought up the subject again.
‘Path through the trees!’ Lord Emsworth stiffened through the whole length of his thin body. Nature, he had always said, intended the ground under the trees to be covered with grass. And, whatever Nature felt about it, he personally was not going to have men with Glasgow speech patterns, and faces like drunken potatoes, coming along and spoiling that lovely stretch of green. ‘Path! Why not a few boards with advertisements on them and a petrol pump? That’s what the man would really like.’
‘Well, I think it is a good idea,’ said his sister. ‘One could walk there in wet weather then. Wet grass is terribly bad for shoes.’
Lord Emsworth rose. He could bear no more of this. He left the table, the room and the house and, reaching these particular trees some minutes later, was disgusted to find that Angus McAllister was there in person. The head gardener was standing looking at the grass like a high priest of some ancient religion about to kill a human being for the gods.
‘Morning, McAllister,’ said Lord Emsworth coldly.
‘Good morrrrning, your lordship.’
There was a pause. Angus McAllister, stretching out a foot, pressed it into the grass. The meaning of this movement was plain. It showed a general dislike of grass: and Lord Emsworth looked at the man unpleasantly through his glasses. Though he did not often think about religion, he was wondering why Chance, if forced to produce head gardeners, had found it necessary to make them so Scottish. In the case of McAllister, why had it been necessary to make him a human being at all? He felt that he might have liked McAllister if he had been some sort of animal - a dog, perhaps.
‘I was speaking to her ladyship yesterday.’
‘Oh?’
‘About the path. Her ladyship likes the idea a lot.’
‘Really! Well…’
Lord Emsworth’s face had turned bright pink, and he was about to speak the violent words which were forming in his mind when suddenly he noticed the expression in the head gardener’s eye and paused. Angus McAllister was looking at him, and he knew what that look meant. Just one word, his eye was saying - in Scottish, of course - just one word out of you and I will leave. And with a sickening shock Lord Emsworth realized how completely he was in this man’s power.
He moved his feet miserably. Yes, he was helpless. Except for that idea about the path, Angus McAllister was a head gardener in a thousand, and he needed him. That, unfortunately, had been proved by experience. Once before, when they were growing for the flower show a plant which had later won first prize, he had dared to ignore McAllister’s advice. And Angus had left, and he had been forced to beg - yes, to beg - him to come back. An employer cannot hope to do this sort of thing and still rule with an iron hand. Filled with the kind of anger which dares to burn but does not dare to show itself, Lord Emsworth coughed.
‘I’ll - er - I’ll think it over, McAllister.’
‘Mphm.’
‘I have to go to the village now. I will see you later.’
‘Mphm.’
‘I will - er - think it over.’
‘Mphm.’
*   *   *
The job of judging the flowers in the garden competition of the little village of Blandings Parva was one which Lord Emsworth had looked forward to with pleasure. But now, even though he had managed to escape from his sister Constance, he came to the duty with an unhappy spirit. It is always unpleasant for a proud man to realize that he is no longer captain of his soul; that he is in fact under the big boots of a head gardener from Glasgow; and, thinking about this, he judged the gardens without paying much attention to them. It was only when he came to the last on his list that he saw something that attracted his attention.
This, he saw, looking over its broken fence, was not at all a bad little garden. He opened the gate and wandered in. And a sleeping dog opened one eye and looked at him. It was one of those very ordinary, hairy dogs, and its look was cold and distrustful, like that of a businessman who thinks someone is going to play a trick on him.
Lord Emsworth did not see the animal. He had wandered over to some flowers and now, bending down, he smelt them.
The dog for some reason appeared to think that this action was criminal, and jumped up to defend his home. The next moment the world had become full of terrible noises, and Lord Emsworth’s worries were swept away in a strong desire to save his legs from harm.
He was not at his best with strange dogs. Except for saying ‘Go away, sir!’ and jumping about in a surprisingly active way for a man of his age, he had done little to defend himself when the house door opened and a girl came out.
‘Hoy!’ cried the girl.
And immediately, at the sound of her voice, the dog, stopping the attack, ran towards the newcomer and lay on his back at her feet with all four legs in the air. The sight reminded Lord Emsworth of his own behaviour when in the presence of Angus McAllister.
He looked at the person who had saved him. She was a small girl, of uncertain age - possibly twelve or thirteen, though a combination of London weather and a hard life had given her face a sort of lined motherliness which caused his lordship to treat her as someone of his own age. She was the kind of girl you see carrying a baby nearly as large as herself and still with enough strength to lead one little brother by the hand and shout at another in the distance. Her face shone from recent soaping, and she was wearing her best dress. She wore her hair pulled tightly back from her face.
‘Er - thank you,’ said Lord Emsworth.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the girl.
What she was thanking him for, his lordship was not able to understand. Later, when they knew each other better, he discovered that this strange gratitude was a habit with his new friend. She thanked everybody for everything. At the moment, the habit surprised him.
Lack of practice had made it a little difficult for Lord Emsworth to talk to members of the opposite sex. He tried hard to think of a subject.
‘Fine day.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Are you’ - Lord Emsworth secretly looked at his list - ‘are you the daughter of - er - Ebenezer Sprockett?’ he asked, thinking, as he had often thought before, what ugly names some of the people who lived on his lands possessed.
‘No, sir. I’m from London, sir.’
‘Ah? London, eh? Rather warm it must be there.’ He paused. Then, remembering his youth: ‘Er - been to many dances this season?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Everybody out of London now, I suppose? What’s your name?’
‘Gladys, sir. Thank you, sir. This is Ern.’
A small boy had wandered out of the small house, a rather angry-looking boy, bearing surprisingly in his hand a large and beautiful bunch of flowers. Lord Emsworth smiled politely and with the addition of this third person to the conversation felt more comfortable.
‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘What pretty flowers!’
With her brother’s arrival, Gladys had also felt happier.
‘Good, aren’t they?’ she agreed eagerly. ‘I got ’em for ’im up at the big house. Ooh! The man the place belongs to ran after me! ’E found me picking them, and ’e shouted something and came runnin’ after me, but I threw a stone at ’im, and ’e stopped to rub his leg and I came away.’
Lord Emsworth could have corrected her idea that Blandings Castle and its gardens belonged to Angus McAllister, but his mind was so filled with admiration and gratitude that he did not do so. He looked at the girl respectfully. This wonderful woman was able to control dogs with just a word, and actually threw stones at Angus McAllister - a thing which he had never had courage to do himself in their nine years together - and, what was more, hit him on the leg with them.
‘Ern,’ said Gladys, changing the subject, ‘is wearing hair oil today.’
Lord Emsworth had already noticed this, and had, in fact, been moving away as she spoke.
‘For the Feet,’ explained Gladys.
‘The feet? Oh, you are going to the Fete?’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’
For the first time Lord Emsworth began to think of the event with something like pleasure.
‘We must look for each other there,’ he said kindly. ‘You will remember me again? I shall be wearing’ - he swallowed - ‘a top hat.’
‘Ern’s going to wear a straw hat that’s been given ’im.’
Lord Emsworth looked at the lucky young devil with a feeling of jealousy. He thought he knew that straw hat. It had been his companion for about six years and then had been torn from him by his sister Constance and given away.
He thought sadly about the lost hat.
‘Well, goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Lord Emsworth walked thoughtfully out of the garden and, turning into the little street, met Lady Constance.
‘Oh, there you are, Clarence.’
‘Yes,’ said Lord Emsworth, since it was true.
‘Have you finished judging the gardens?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am just going into this last house here. I am told there is a little girl from London staying there. I want to warn her to behave properly this afternoon. I have spoken to the others.’
Lord Emsworth stood up straight. His glasses were not level, but in spite of this he looked commanding.
‘Well, be careful what you say,’ he ordered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. I have the greatest respect for the young lady of whom you speak. She behaved on a certain recent occasion - on two recent occasions - with courage and skill, and I won’t have her spoken to severely. Understand that!’
*   *   *
The real title of the party which was held every year on the first Monday in August in the park of Blandings Castle was the Blandings Parva School Treat; and it seemed to Lord Emsworth, watching the event from under the shadow of his tall black hat, that if this was the sort of thing schools enjoyed, he and they enjoyed very different things.
The sheep and cows to whom this park usually belonged had been sent away to places unknown, leaving the grass to children whose activity frightened Lord Emsworth, and to adults who appeared to have lost all their self-respect. Look at Mrs Rossiter over there, for example. On any other day of the year, when you met her, Mrs Rossiter was a nice, quiet woman who smiled respectfully as you passed. Today, red in the face and with her hat on one side, she seemed to have gone completely mad. She was wandering here and there drinking out of a bottle; and when she was not drinking, she was using her mouth to blow through some child’s toy and make a terrible noise.
The injustice of the thing hurt Lord Emsworth. This park was his own private park. What right had people to come and make noises in it? How would Mrs Rossiter like it if one afternoon he suddenly marched into her neat little garden in the High Street and rushed about over her grass making noises?
And it was always on these occasions so terribly hot. Even if July ended with snow, as soon as the first Monday in August arrived and he had to put on a stiff collar, out came the burning sun.
Of course, admitted Lord Emsworth, since he was a fair man, this worked both ways. The hotter the day, the more quickly his collar melted and stopped cutting into his neck. This afternoon, for example, the collar had almost immediately become something like a wet cloth.
A masterful figure came to his side.
‘Clarence!’
Lord Emsworth’s spiritual state was now such that not even the arrival of his sister Constance could add much to his discomfort.
‘Clarence, you look a terrible sight.’
‘I know I do. Who wouldn’t, in clothes like these?’
‘Please don’t be childish, Clarence. I cannot understand why you hate dressing for once in your life like a reasonable English gentleman, and not like a beggar.’
‘It’s this top hat. It’s exciting the children.’
‘What on earth do you mean, exciting the children?’
‘Well, all I can tell you is that just now, as I was passing the place where they’re playing football - football! In weather like this! - a small boy called out something insulting and threw a nut at it.’
‘If you will tell me which boy it was,’ said Lady Constance, angrily, ‘I will have him severely punished.’
‘How,’ replied his lordship, equally angry, ‘can I do that? They all look alike to me. And if I knew him, I would shake him by the hand. A boy who throws nuts at top hats is in his right mind. And stiff collars
‘Stiff! That’s what I came to speak to you about. Do you know what your collar looks like? Go in and change it immediately.’ ‘But, my dear Constance
‘Immediately, Clarence. I simply cannot understand a man having so little pride in his appearance. But all your life you have been like that. I remember when we were children
Lord Emsworth’s past was not so pure that he was prepared to stand and listen to an account of it by a sister with a good memory.
‘Oh, all right, all right, all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll change it, I’ll change it.’
‘Well, hurry. They are just starting tea.’
Lord Emsworth trembled.
‘Have I got to go into that tea tent?’
‘Of course you have. As master of Blandings Castle...’
A bitter laugh from the poor creature she was describing drowned the rest of the sentence.
*   *   *
It always seemed to Lord Emsworth, in examining these entertainments, that the show on August Bank Holiday at Blandings Castle reached its lowest point when tea was served in the big tent. When tea was over, the pain grew less, though it became worse again at the moment when he stepped to the edge of the platform and cleared his throat and tried to remember what on earth he had planned to say. After that the pain disappeared again until the following August.
The tent had stood all day under a burning sun, and conditions during the tea hour were such that they could not have been more unpleasant. Lord Emsworth was late, delayed by the necessary change to his collar. He entered the tent when the meal was half over, and was pleased to find that his second collar began to lose its stiffness almost immediately. But that was the only touch of happiness that was given to him. As soon as he was in the tent, it took his experienced eye only a moment to see that the present meal was even more terrible than those that had gone before.
The young people of Blandings Parva were not known as troublemakers. In all villages, of course, there must be violent characters - in Blandings Parva the names of Willie Drake and Thomas Blenkiron come immediately to mind - but on the whole the local youth could be controlled. It was the addition of the Fresh Air London visitors which gave the present meeting its violent nature.
The London child has a confidence which his country cousin lacks. Years of sharp replies to angry parents and relatives have cured him of any shyness, with the result that when he wants anything he takes it, and when he is amused by anything unusual in the personal appearance of members of the governing classes, he finds no difficulty in saying so openly. Already, up and down the long tables, the front teeth of one of the schoolteachers were being loudly discussed. Lord Emsworth was not usually a man of quick thought, but it seemed to him at this moment that it would be wise to take off his top hat before his little guests noticed it.
The action was not, in the end, necessary. As he raised his hand to take it off, a small, hard cake, flying through the air, took it off for him.
Lord Emsworth had had enough. Even Constance, an unreasonable woman, could not expect him to stay and smile in conditions like these. Lord Emsworth went slowly towards the way out, and left.
*   *   *
Outside the tent the world was quieter, but only slightly quieter. What Lord Emsworth wanted was to be alone, and in all the broad park there seemed to be only one spot where he could be alone. This was a red-roofed hut, used in happier times by cows. Hurrying there, his lordship was just beginning to enjoy the cool darkness of the inside of the hut when from one of the dark corners, causing him to jump and bite his tongue, there came a small sound.
He turned. This was too much. With the whole park to go to, why should a child come in here? He spoke angrily.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Me, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Only one person whom Lord Emsworth knew was able to thank him for having been spoken to so sharply. His anger died away. He felt like a man who, by mistake, has kicked a loyal dog.
‘Good heavens!’ he cried. ‘What in the world are you doing here?’
‘Please, sir, I was put ’ere.’
‘Put? What do you mean, put? Why?’
‘For stealing things, sir.’
‘Eh? What? Stealing things? Most strange. What did you steal?’
‘Two sandwiches, two apples and a piece of cake.’
The girl had come out of her corner. Force of habit had made her give the list of what she had stolen in the same flat voice as she used at school to her teacher, but Lord Emsworth could see that she was very upset. Tears shone on her face, and no Emsworth had ever been able to watch a woman’s tears. He was deeply troubled.
He gave her his handkerchief.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What did you say you had taken?’
She told him again.
‘Did you eat them?’
‘No, sir.They weren’t for me.They were for Ern.’
‘Ern? Oh, yes. Of course. For Ern?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But why on earth couldn’t Ern have - er - stolen them for himself? He’s a strong young boy.’
‘Ern wasn’t allowed to come, sir.’
‘What? Not allowed? Who said he mustn’t?’
‘The lady, sir.’
‘What lady?’
‘The one that came in just after you’d gone this morning.’
An angry cry escaped from Lord Emsworth’s lips. Constance! What did Constance mean by changing his list of guests without asking him? Constance, eh? One of these days Constance would go too far.
‘Terrible!’ he cried.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did she give any reason?’
‘The lady didn’t like Ern biting ’er in the leg, sir.’
‘Ern bit her in the leg?’
‘Yes, sir. Pretending to be a dog, sir, ’e was. And the lady was cross and Ern wasn’t allowed to come, and I told him I’d bring him back something nice.’
Lord Emsworth breathed heavily. He had not supposed that a family like this existed. The sister threw stones at Angus McAllister, the brother bit Constance in the leg... It was too wonderful to be true!
‘I thought if I ’ad nothing myself, it would make it all right.’
‘Nothing?’ Lord Emsworth was astonished. ‘Do you mean to tell me you have not had tea?’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir. I thought if I ’ad none, then it would be all right if Ern ’ad what I would ’ave ’ad.’
His lordship’s head, never very strong, swam a little in confusion. Then he understood. ‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘I never heard anything so terrible in my life. Come with me immediately.’
‘The lady said I had to stop ’ere, sir.’
‘Never mind the lady!’ Lord Emsworth commanded.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Five minutes later Beach, Lord Emsworth’s manservant, enjoying a short sleep in the housekeeper’s room, was awakened by the unexpected ringing of a bell. Answering its call, he found his employer in the library, and with him a surprising young person.
‘Beach!’
‘Your lordship?’
‘This young lady would like some tea.’
‘Very good, your lordship.’
‘Sandwiches, you know, and apples and cake, and that sort of thing.’
‘Very good, your lordship.’
‘And she has a brother, Beach.’
‘Really, your lordship?’
‘She will want to take some food away for him.’ Lord Emsworth turned to his guest. ‘Ernest would like a little chicken, perhaps?’
‘Ooooh!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yes, sir.Thank you, sir.’
‘Fine! Then bring a bottle of that new wine, Beach. It’s some they sent me to try,’ explained his lordship. ‘Nothing special, you understand,’ he added, ‘but quite good. Put all that together in a package, Beach, and leave it on the table in the hall. We will pick it up as we go out.’
It was less hot when Lord Emsworth and his guest came out of the great door of the castle into the evening air. Gladys, holding her host’s hand and the package, was happy. She had had a good tea. Life seemed to have nothing more to offer.
Lord Emsworth did not share this view. He was ready to do more.
‘Now, is there anything else you can think of that Ernest would like?’ he asked. ‘If so, just say so. Beach, can you think of anything?’
Beach was unable to do so.
‘No, your lordship. I added - on my own responsibility, your lordship - some hard-boiled eggs.’
‘Excellent! You’re sure there is nothing else?’
A hopeful look came into Gladys’s eyes.
‘Could he have some flarze?’
‘Certainly,’ said Lord Emsworth. ‘Certainly, certainly, certainly. Of course. Just what I was going to suggest - er - what is flarze?’
Beach explained.
‘I think the young lady means flowers, your lordship.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Flarze.’
‘Oh?’ said Lord Emsworth. ‘Oh? Flowers?’ he said slowly.
He took off his glasses, cleaned them thoughtfully, put them on again and looked out at the gardens. They contained thousands of flowers. They were bright with flowers of all kinds. But what about Angus McAllister? What would he do if they were picked?
As a general rule, the way to get flowers out of Angus McAllister was as follows. You waited until he was feeling kind- hearted, which happened rarely. Then you led the conversation gently round to the subject of flower arrangements. Then, at the right moment, you asked if he could possibly let you have a few. The last thing you thought of doing was to start picking the flowers yourself.
‘I - er... ’ said Lord Emsworth.
He stopped. He suddenly saw himself as he was: the unspeakably weak representative of a family which in the old days had certainly known how to treat its employees. Long ago, people had known how to speak to servants. Of course, they had possessed certain advantages which he lacked. If they got angry with a head gardener, they had him cut to pieces, and no questions were asked — but in spite of this, he realized that they were better men than he was, and that if he allowed fear of Angus McAllister to prevent this charming girl and her brother from having flowers, he had no right to call himself Lord Emsworth.
Lord Emsworth struggled with his fears.
‘Certainly, certainly, certainly,’ he said. ‘Take as many as you want.’
And so it happened that Angus McAllister’s eyes fell on a sight which first froze his blood and then caused it to boil. Moving here and there through his gardens was a small girl picking his flowers. And - this made his blood boil - it was the same girl who two days ago had thrown stones at him and hit him on the leg. The quietness of the summer evening was broken by a noise that sounded like boilers exploding, and Angus came towards her at 45 miles an hour.
Gladys did not wait. She was a London child, trained from a young age to be brave in times of danger, but this attack was so sudden that for a moment it broke her nerve. With a frightened cry she ran to where Lord Emsworth stood, and hid behind him.
Lord Emsworth was not feeling very good himself. We have pictured him a few moments ago deciding to put McAllister in his proper place. But truth forces us to admit that this decision was taken because he believed the head gardener to be a quarter of a mile away Lord Emsworth's knees shook, and the soul within him trembled.
And then something happened and the whole situation changed.
It was, in itself, a small thing, but it served to encourage Lord Emsworth. What happened was that Gladys, needing further protection, slid a small, hot hand into his.
She trusted him.
‘He’s coming,’ whispered a small voice inside Lord Emsworth.
‘What about it?’ replied Lord Emsworth bravely.
‘Put him in his place,’ breathed his lordship’s greatgrandfathers.
‘I will,’ replied Lord Emsworth.
He stood up straight. He felt masterful. If the man decided to leave his job, let him.
‘Well, McAllister?’ said Lord Emsworth coldly.
He took off his top hat and brushed it against his coat.
‘What is the matter, McAllister?’
He put his top hat on again.
‘You appear to be upset, McAllister.’
He moved his head. The hat fell off. He let it lie. Free from its hateful weight, he felt more masterful than ever.
‘This young lady,’ said Lord Emsworth, ‘has my full permission to pick all the flowers she wants, McAllister. If you do not agree with me in this matter, McAllister, say so and we will discuss what you are going to do about it, McAllister. These gardens, McAllister, belong to me, and if you do not realize the fact you will, no doubt be able to find another employer with more - er - sympathy for your views. I value your services highly, McAllister, but I will not be ordered about in my own garden, McAllister.’
A long moment followed in which Nature stood still, breathless. All the flowers stood still. From far off in the direction of the park there sounded the happy cries of children, who were probably breaking things, but even these seemed quieter than before.
Angus McAllister stood red and angry in the face. He was confused. Angus had never thought that his employer would suggest that he might look for another position. And now that he had suggested it, Angus McAllister disliked the idea very much. He loved Blandings Castle. He would be miserable anywhere else. He made his decision.
‘Mphm,’ said Angus McAllister.
‘Oh, and by the way, McAllister,’ said Lord Emsworth, ‘that matter about the path through the trees. I’ve been thinking it over, and I won’t have it. Certainly not. Spoil my beautiful gardens with an ugly path? Ruin the most beautiful spot in one of the finest and oldest gardens in England? Certainly not. No. Try to remember, McAllister, as you work in the gardens of Blandings Castle, that you are not back in Scotland, laying out playing fields. That is all, McAllister; that is all.’
‘Mphm,’ said Angus McAllister.
He turned. He walked away. He disappeared. Nature began to breathe again. The wind began to blow. And all over the gardens, the birds, which had stopped singing, began again.
Lord Emsworth took out his handkerchief and ran it over his face. He was shaken, but a new sense of being a man among men filled him with pleasure. He almost wished that his sister Constance would come along and say something while he felt like this.
He had his wish.
‘Clarence!’
Yes, there she was, hurrying towards him up the garden path. She, like McAllister, seemed upset. Something was on her mind.
‘Clarence!’
‘Don’t keep saying “Clarence!” ’ said Lord Emsworth with his head held high. ‘What on earth is the matter, Constance?’
‘Matter? Do you know what the time is? Do you know that everybody is waiting down there for you to make your speech?’
Lord Emsworth looked her in the eye severely.
‘I do not,’ he said. ‘And I don’t care. I’m not going to make any speech. If you want a speech, let someone else make it. Or make it yourself. Speech! I never heard such nonsense in my life.’ He turned to Gladys. ‘Now, my dear,’ he said, ‘if you will just give me time to get out of these terrible clothes and this devilish collar and put on something human, we’ll go down to the village and have a talk with Ern.’

- THE END -
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