It's curious how, when you're in love, you yearn to go about doing acts of kindness to everybody.

One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.

I shoved on a dressing-gown, and flew downstairs like a mighty, rushing wind.

The exquisite code of politeness of the Woosters prevented me clipping her one on the ear-hole, but I would have given a shilling to be able to do it. There seemed to me something deliberately fat-headed in the way she persisted in missing the gist.

A lesser moustache, under the impact of that quick, agonised expulsion of breath, would have worked loose at the roots.

It is true of course, that I have a will of iron, but it can be switched off if the circumstances seem to demand it.

I am Psmith," said the old Etonian reverently. "There is a preliminary P before the name. This, however, is silent. Like the tomb. Compare such words as ptarmigan, psalm, and phthisis.