“That’s absolutely topping of you, old man!” he said.  “Then I’ll leave the whole thing to you.  Write me the moment you have done anything, won’t you?  Good-by, old top, and thanks ever so much!”

The door closed.  R. Jones remained where he sat, his fingers straying luxuriously among the crackling paper.  A feeling of complete happiness warmed R. Jones’ bosom.  He was uncertain whether or not his mission would be successful; and to be truthful he was not letting that worry him much.  What he was certain of was the fact that the heavens had opened unexpectedly and dropped five hundred pounds into his lap.

CHAPTER III

The Earl of Emsworth stood in the doorway of the Senior Conservative Club’s vast diningroom, and beamed with a vague sweetness on the two hundred or so Senior Conservatives who, with much clattering of knives and forks, were keeping body and soul together by means of the coffee-room luncheon.  He might have been posing for a statue of Amiability.  His pale blue eyes shone with a friendly light through their protecting glasses; the smile of a man at peace with all men curved his weak mouth; his bald head, reflecting the sunlight, seemed almost to wear a halo.

Nobody appeared to notice him.  He so seldom came to London these days that he was practically a stranger in the club; and in any case your Senior Conservative, when at lunch, has little leisure for observing anything not immediately on the table in front of him.  To attract attention in the dining-room of the Senior Conservative Club between the hours of one and two-thirty, you have to be a mutton chop—­not an earl.

It is possible that, lacking the initiative to make his way down the long aisle and find a table for himself, he might have stood there indefinitely, but for the restless activity of Adams, the head steward.  It was Adams’ mission in life to flit to and fro, hauling would-be lunchers to their destinations, as a St. Bernard dog hauls travelers out of Alpine snowdrifts.  He sighted Lord Emsworth and secured him with a genteel pounce.

“A table, your lordship?  This way, your lordship.”  Adams remembered him, of course.  Adams remembered everybody.

Lord Emsworth followed him beamingly and presently came to anchor at a table in the farther end of the room.  Adams handed him the bill of fare and stood brooding over him like a providence.

“Don’t often see your lordship in the club,” he opened chattily.

It was business to know the tastes and dispositions of all the five thousand or so members of the Senior Conservative Club and to suit his demeanor to them.  To some he would hand the bill of fare swiftly, silently, almost brusquely, as one who realizes that there are moments in life too serious for talk.  Others, he knew, liked conversation; and to those he introduced the subject of food almost as a sub-motive.

Lord Emsworth, having examined the bill of fare with a mild curiosity, laid it down and became conversational.