I felt I could not have heard her aright.

"Get up and dress?"

"Yes."

I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves
entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a
straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won't say restored, because a
birthday party like Pongo Twistleton's isn't a thing you get restored
after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old Bertram to be
able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come upon me.

And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the
scenario.

"What is this, Aunt Dahlia?" I inquired.

"It looks to me like tea," was her response. "But you know best. You're
drinking it."

If I hadn't been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubt
that I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.

"Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me
to get up and dress, and all that rot."

"I've barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce
no effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get
up and dress. I've come to take you back with me. I like your crust,