I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.

You would be miserable if you had to go through life with a human doormat with 'Welcome' written on him. You want some one made of sterner stuff. You want, as it were, a sparring-partner, some one with whom you can quarrel happily with the certain knowledge that he will not curl up in a ball for you to kick, but will be there with the return wallop.

That is life. Just one long succession of misunderstandings and rash acts and what not. Absolutely.

He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.

Many bad golfers marry, feeling that a wife's loving solicitude may improve their game. But they are rugged, thick-skinned men, not sensitive and introspective. It is one of the chief merits of golf that non-success at the game induces a certain amount of decent humilty, which keeps a man from pluming himself too much on any petty triumphs he may achieve in other walks of life.

Intoxicated? The word did not express it by a mile. He was oiled, boiled, fried, plastered, whiffled, sozzled, and blotto.

There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?'" "The mood will pass, sir.