Something New | Page 7

he had
heard the door handle turn. When the door opened he was giving a
correct representation of a young man wasting no time in beginning his
toilet for the day.
An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered. He
regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor.
"Are you only just getting up, Frederick?"
"Hello, gov'nor. Good morning. I shan't be two ticks now."
"You should have been out and about two hours ago. The day is
glorious."
"Shan't be more than a minute, gov'nor, now. Just got to have a tub and
then chuck on a few clothes."
He disappeared into the bathroom. His father, taking a chair, placed the
tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless, a
figure of disapproval and suppressed annoyance.
Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had suffered

much through that problem which, with the exception of Mr.
Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British aristocratic
amber--the problem of what to do with the younger sons.
It is useless to try to gloss over the fact--in the aristocratic families of
Great Britain the younger son is not required.
Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, as such, a
nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had always annoyed his
father in a variety of ways. The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted
that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply; but
Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world.
There had been a consistency, a perseverance, about his irritating
performances that had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a
stone. Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle
his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since
he went to Eton.
He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming
the streets of Windsor in a false mustache. He had been sent down from
Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story window on the junior dean
of his college. He had spent two years at an expensive London
crammer's and failed to pass into the army. He had also accumulated an
almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of
friends--for the most part vaguely connected with the turf--as any
young man of his age ever contrived to collect.
These things try the most placid of parents; and finally Lord Emsworth
had put his foot down. It was the only occasion in his life when he had
acted with decision, and he did it with the accumulated energy of years.
He stopped his son's allowance, haled him home to Blandings Castle,
and kept him there so relentlessly that until the previous night, when
they had come up together by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen
London for nearly a year.
Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secret troubles, he was
at any rate once more in his beloved metropolis that caused Freddie at
this point to burst into discordant song. He splashed and warbled

simultaneously.
Lord Emsworth's frown deepened and he began to tap his fingers
together irritably. Then his brow cleared and a pleased smile flickered
over his face. He, too, had remembered.
What Lord Emsworth remembered was this: Late in the previous
autumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by an American, a
Mr. Peters--a man with many millions, chronic dyspepsia, and one fair
daughter--Aline. The two families had met. Freddie and Aline had been
thrown together; and, only a few days before, the engagement had been
announced. And for Lord Emsworth the only flaw in this best of all
possible worlds had been removed.
Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to Aline Peters.
He liked Aline. He liked Mr. Peters. Such was the relief he experienced
that he found himself feeling almost affectionate toward Freddie, who
emerged from the bathroom at this moment, clad in a pink bathrobe, to
find the paternal wrath evaporated, and all, so to speak, right with the
world.
Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing. He was always ill
at ease in his father's presence and he wished to be elsewhere with all
possible speed. He sprang into his trousers with such energy that he
nearly tripped himself up. As he disentangled himself he recollected
something that had slipped his memory.
"By the way, gov'nor, I met an old pal of mine last night and asked him
down to Blandings this week. That's all right, isn't it? He's a man
named Emerson, an American. He knows Aline quite well, he says--has
known her since she was a kid."
"I do not remember any friend of yours