He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers--the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.

The Duke of Dunstable had one-way pockets. He would walk ten miles in the snow to chisel an orphan out of tuppence.

Golf, like the measles, should be caught young, for, if postponed to riper years, the results may be serious.

Joan was nothing more than a friend. He was not in love with her. One does not fall in love with a girl whom one has met only three times. One is attracted, yes; but one does not fall in love. A moment's reflection enabled him to diagnose his sensations correctly. This odd impulse to leap across the compartment and kiss Joan was not love. It was merely the natural desire of a good-hearted young man to be decently chummy with his species.

There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.

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

Well, you know what the Fulham Road's like. If your top-hat blows off into it, it has about as much chance as a rabbit at a dogshow.