smallish, freckled boy, wearing a pork-pie hat and carrying a bag. On
his face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment.

Psmith rose courteously from his chair, and moved forward with slow
stateliness to do the honors.

"What the dickens," inquired the newcomer, "are you doing here?"

"We were having a little tea," said Psmith, "to restore our tissues
after our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, we Psmiths.
Let me introduce you to Comrade Jackson. A stout fellow. Homely in
appearance, perhaps, but one of us. I am Psmith. Your own name will
doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the teacups."

"My name's Spiller, and this is my study."

Psmith leaned against the mantelpiece, put up his eyeglass, and
harangued Spiller in a philosophical vein.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen," said he, "the saddest are these:
'It might have been.' Too late! That is the bitter cry. If you had torn
yourself from the bosom of the Spiller family by an earlier train, all
might have been well. But no. Your father held your hand and said
huskily, 'Edwin, don't leave us!' Your mother clung to you weeping, and
said, 'Edwin, stay!' Your sisters--"

"I want to know what--"

"Your sisters froze on to your knees like little octopuses (or octopi),
and screamed, 'Don't go, Edwin!' And so," said Psmith, deeply affected