thousand of all sorts to make the Senior Conservative Club. To be
absolutely accurate, there were three thousand seven hundred and
eighteen members.

To Mr Bickersdyke for the next week it seemed as if there was only one.

There was nothing crude or overdone about Psmith's methods. The
ordinary man, having conceived the idea of haunting a fellow clubman,
might have seized the first opportunity of engaging him in
conversation. Not so Psmith. The first time he met Mr Bickersdyke in
the club was on the stairs after dinner one night. The great man,
having received practical proof of the excellence of cuisine referred
to above, was coming down the main staircase at peace with all men,
when he was aware of a tall young man in the 'faultless evening dress'
of which the female novelist is so fond, who was regarding him with a
fixed stare through an eye-glass. The tall young man, having caught his
eye, smiled faintly, nodded in a friendly but patronizing manner, and
passed on up the staircase to the library. Mr Bickersdyke sped on in
search of a waiter.

As Psmith sat in the library with a novel, the waiter entered, and
approached him.

'Beg pardon, sir,' he said. 'Are you a member of this club?'

Psmith fumbled in his pocket and produced his eye-glass, through which
he examined the waiter, button by button.

'I am Psmith,' he said simply.