"I am acting sub-editor. The work is not light," added Psmith
gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round, 'Can Psmith get
through it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?'
But I stagger on. I do not repine."

"Then maybe you can tell me what all this means?" said a small
round gentleman who so far had done only chorus work.

"If it is in my power to do so, it shall be done, Comrade--I have
not the pleasure of your name."

"My name is Waterman, sir. I am here on behalf of my wife, whose
name you doubtless know."

"Correct me if I am wrong," said Psmith, "but I should say it,
also, was Waterman."

"Luella Granville Waterman, sir," said the little man proudly.
Psmith removed his eye-glass, polished it, and replaced it in his
eye. He felt that he must run no risk of not seeing clearly the
husband of one who, in his opinion, stood alone in literary circles
as a purveyor of sheer bilge.

"My wife," continued the little man, producing an envelope
and handing it to Psmith, "has received this extraordinary
communication from a man signing himself W. Windsor. We are
both at a loss to make head or tail of it."

Psmith was reading the letter.