"A table, your lordship? This way, your lordship." Adams
remembered him, of course. Adams remembered everybody.

Lord Emsworth followed him beamingly and presently came to anchor
at a table in the farther end of the room. Adams handed him the
bill of fare and stood brooding over him like a providence.

"Don't often see your lordship in the club," he opened chattily.

It was business to know the tastes and dispositions of all the
five thousand or so members of the Senior Conservative Club and
to suit his demeanor to them. To some he would hand the bill of
fare swiftly, silently, almost brusquely, as one who realizes
that there are moments in life too serious for talk. Others, he
knew, liked conversation; and to those he introduced the subject
of food almost as a sub-motive.

Lord Emsworth, having examined the bill of fare with a mild
curiosity, laid it down and became conversational.

"No, Adams; I seldom visit London nowadays. London does not
attract me. The country--the fields--the woods--the birds----"

Something across the room seemed to attract his attention and his
voice trailed off. He inspected this for some time with bland
interest, then turned to Adams once more.

"What was I saying, Adams?"

"The birds, your lordship."