Smythe. My father's content to worry along in the old-fashioned way, but
I've decided to strike out a fresh line. I shall found a new dynasty.
The resolve came to me unexpectedly this morning. I jotted it down on
the back of an envelope. In conversation you may address me as Rupert
(though I hope you won't), or simply Smith, the _P_ not being sounded.
Compare the name Zbysco, in which the Z is given a similar
miss-in-balk. See?"

Mike said he saw. Psmith thanked him with a certain stately old world
courtesy.

"Let us start at the beginning," he resumed. "My infancy. When I was but
a babe, my eldest sister was bribed with a shilling an hour by my nurse
to keep an eye on me, and see that I did not raise Cain. At the end of
the first day she struck for one-and-six, and got it. We now pass to my
boyhood. At an early age, I was sent to Eton, everybody predicting a
bright career for me. But," said Psmith solemnly, fixing an owl-like
gaze on Mike through the eyeglass, "it was not to be."

"No?" said Mike.

"No. I was superannuated last term."

"Bad luck."

"For Eton, yes. But what Eton loses, Sedleigh gains."

"But why Sedleigh, of all places?"

"This is the most painful part of my narrative. It seems that a certain