call the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well,
I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit of
breakfast--what?"

Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord
Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's
allusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy."
Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the ideal
attitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to be
a lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simply
another manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case it
was not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism.

Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk
handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they
passed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they
parted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter
about the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always
a trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and
the city held no fascinations for him.

* * *

On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the
streets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames
Embankment, there is a door that would be all the better for a
lick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest and
unostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimy
ground-glass displays the words: