Jeeves and the King of Clubs

by Ben Schott

Lambert Lyall crumpled in abject mortification – like one who has mistaken a paunch for pregnancy and launched in with heartfelt congratulations and suggestions for suitable names and capable nannies.

‘Madeline? A good enough sort, I suppose, albeit with a tendency to soppy whimsicality. She insists, for example, that dewdrops are angels’ tears.’ ‘But they are, aren’t they?’ ‘It is, as Jeeves would say, a hypothesis that defies scientific validation.’

‘Not a butler?’ This was, I explained, a common confusion. Seppings is a butler; he runs Brinkley Court and the legion of staff therein. Jeeves, however, is a gentleman’s personal gentleman – ‘a valet with a brain’, Uncle Tom once said – and he runs me.