He had been expelled from Eton for breaking out at night and roaming the streets of Windsor in a false mustache.  He had been sent down from Oxford for pouring ink from a second-story window on the junior dean of his college.  He had spent two years at an expensive London crammer’s and failed to pass into the army.  He had also accumulated an almost record series of racing debts, besides as shady a gang of friends—­for the most part vaguely connected with the turf—­as any young man of his age ever contrived to collect.

These things try the most placid of parents; and finally Lord Emsworth had put his foot down.  It was the only occasion in his life when he had acted with decision, and he did it with the accumulated energy of years.  He stopped his son’s allowance, haled him home to Blandings Castle, and kept him there so relentlessly that until the previous night, when they had come up together by an afternoon train, Freddie had not seen London for nearly a year.

Possibly it was the reflection that, whatever his secret troubles, he was at any rate once more in his beloved metropolis that caused Freddie at this point to burst into discordant song.  He splashed and warbled simultaneously.

Lord Emsworth’s frown deepened and he began to tap his fingers together irritably.  Then his brow cleared and a pleased smile flickered over his face.  He, too, had remembered.

What Lord Emsworth remembered was this:  Late in the previous autumn the next estate to Blandings had been rented by an American, a Mr. Peters—­a man with many millions, chronic dyspepsia, and one fair daughter—­Aline.  The two families had met.  Freddie and Aline had been thrown together; and, only a few days before, the engagement had been announced.  And for Lord Emsworth the only flaw in this best of all possible worlds had been removed.

Yes, he was glad Freddie was engaged to be married to Aline Peters.  He liked Aline.  He liked Mr. Peters.  Such was the relief he experienced that he found himself feeling almost affectionate toward Freddie, who emerged from the bathroom at this moment, clad in a pink bathrobe, to find the paternal wrath evaporated, and all, so to speak, right with the world.

Nevertheless, he wasted no time about his dressing.  He was always ill at ease in his father’s presence and he wished to be elsewhere with all possible speed.  He sprang into his trousers with such energy that he nearly tripped himself up.  As he disentangled himself he recollected something that had slipped his memory.

“By the way, gov’nor, I met an old pal of mine last night and asked him down to Blandings this week.  That’s all right, isn’t it?  He’s a man named Emerson, an American.  He knows Aline quite well, he says—­has known her since she was a kid.”

“I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first time.  But it’s all right.  He’s a good chap, don’t you know! —­and all that sort of rot.”