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

It has been well said that an author who expects results from a first novel is in a position similar to that of a man who drops a rose petal down the Grand Canyon of Arizona and listens for the echo.

I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat.

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

It would take more than long-stemmed roses to change my view that you're a despicable cowardy custard and a disgrace to a proud family. Your ancestors fought in the Crusades and were often mentioned in despatches, and you cringe like a salted snail at the thought of appearing as Santa Claus before an audience of charming children who wouldn't hurt a fly. It's enough to make an aunt turn her face to the wall and give up the struggle.

He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.

It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.