He had just remembered.  It is like that in this life.  You wake up, feeling as fit as a fiddle; you look at the window and see the sun, and thank Heaven for a fine day; you begin to plan a perfectly corking luncheon party with some of the chappies you met last night at the National Sporting Club; and then—­you remember.

“Oh, dash it!” said the Honorable Freddie.  And after a moment’s pause:  “And I was feeling so dashed happy!”

For the space of some minutes he remained plunged in sad meditation; then, picking up the telephone from the table at his side, he asked for a number.

“Hello!”

“Hello!” responded a rich voice at the other end of the wire.

“Oh, I say!  Is that you, Dickie?”

“Who is that?”

“This is Freddie Threepwood.  I say, Dickie, old top, I want to see you about something devilish important.  Will you be in at twelve?”

“Certainly.  What’s the trouble?”

“I can’t explain over the wire; but it’s deuced serious.”

“Very well.  By the way, Freddie, congratulations on the engagement.”

“Thanks, old man.  Thanks very much, and so on—­but you won’t forget to be in at twelve, will you?  Good-by.”

He replaced the receiver quickly and sprang out of bed, for he had heard the door handle turn.  When the door opened he was giving a correct representation of a young man wasting no time in beginning his toilet for the day.

An elderly, thin-faced, bald-headed, amiably vacant man entered.  He regarded the Honorable Freddie with a certain disfavor.

“Are you only just getting up, Frederick?”

“Hello, gov’nor.  Good morning.  I shan’t be two ticks now.”

“You should have been out and about two hours ago.  The day is glorious.”

“Shan’t be more than a minute, gov’nor, now.  Just got to have a tub and then chuck on a few clothes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom.  His father, taking a chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and in this attitude remained motionless, a figure of disapproval and suppressed annoyance.

Like many fathers in his rank of life, the Earl of Emsworth had suffered much through that problem which, with the exception of Mr. Lloyd-George, is practically the only fly in the British aristocratic amber—­the problem of what to do with the younger sons.

It is useless to try to gloss over the fact—­in the aristocratic families of Great Britain the younger son is not required.

Apart, however, from the fact that he was a younger son, and, as such, a nuisance in any case, the honorable Freddie had always annoyed his father in a variety of ways.  The Earl of Emsworth was so constituted that no man or thing really had the power to trouble him deeply; but Freddie had come nearer to doing it than anybody else in the world.  There had been a consistency, a perseverance, about his irritating performances that had acted on the placid peer as dripping water on a stone.  Isolated acts of annoyance would have been powerless to ruffle his calm; but Freddie had been exploding bombs under his nose since he went to Eton.