About half-past ten next morning, just after I had finished lubricating
the good old interior with a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered
into my bedroom, and said that Cyril was waiting to see me in the
sitting-room.

"How does he look, Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"What does Mr. Bassington-Bassington look like?"

"It is hardly my place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities of
your friends."

"I don't mean that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?"

"Not noticeably, sir. His manner is tranquil."

"That's rum!"

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Show him in, will you?"

I'm bound to say I had expected to see Cyril showing a few more traces
of last night's battle. I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul
and the quivering ganglions, if you know what I mean. He seemed pretty
ordinary and quite fairly cheerful.