Psmith clicked his tongue sympathetically. "It is like setting a
gifted French chef to wash up dishes," he said. "A man of your
undoubted powers, Comrade Windsor, should have more scope. That is
the cry, 'more scope!' I must look into this matter. When I gaze at
your broad, bulging forehead, when I see the clear light of
intelligence in your eyes, and hear the grey matter splashing
restlessly about in your cerebellum, I say to myself without
hesitation, 'Comrade Windsor must have more scope.'" He looked at
Mike, who was turning over the leaves of his copy of _Cosy Moments_
in a sort of dull despair. "Well, Comrade Jackson, and what is your
verdict?"

Mike looked at Billy Windsor. He wished to be polite, yet he could
find nothing polite to say. Billy interpreted the look.

"Go on," he said. "Say it. It can't be worse than what I think."

"I expect some people would like it awfully," said Mike.

"They must, or they wouldn't buy it. I've never met any of them
yet, though."

Psmith was deep in Lucia Granville Waterman's "Moments in the
Nursery." He turned to Billy Windsor.

"Luella Granville Waterman," he said, "is not by any chance your
_nom-de-plume_, Comrade Windsor?"

"Not on your life. Don't think it."