“The gentlemen are speaking well of the Gorgonzola.”

“All right, bring me some.  You know, Adams, what I admire about Americans is their resource.  Mr. Peters tells me that as a boy of eleven he earned twenty dollars a week selling mint to saloon keepers, as they call publicans over there.  Why they wanted mint I cannot recollect.  Mr. Peters explained the reason to me and it seemed highly plausible at the time; but I have forgotten it.  Possibly for mint sauce.  It impressed me, Adams.  Twenty dollars is four pounds.  I never earned four pounds a week when I was a boy of eleven; in fact, I don’t think I ever earned four pounds a week.  His story impressed me, Adams.  Every man ought to have an earning capacity.  I was so struck with what he told me that I began to paint.”

“Landscapes, your lordship?”

“Furniture.  It is unlikely that I shall ever be compelled to paint furniture for a living, but it is a consolation to me to feel that I could do so if called on.  There is a fascination about painting furniture, Adams.  I have painted the whole of my bedroom at Blandings and am now engaged on the museum.  You would be surprised at the fascination of it.  It suddenly came back to me the other day that I had been inwardly longing to mess about with paints and things since I was a boy.  They stopped me when I was a boy.  I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick—­Tell me, Adams, have I eaten my cheese?”

“Not yet, your lordship.  I was about to send the waiter for it.”

“Never mind.  Tell him to bring the bill instead.  I remember that I have an appointment.  I must not be late.”

“Shall I take the fork, your lordship?”

“The fork?”

“Your lordship has inadvertently put a fork in your coat pocket.”

Lord Emsworth felt in the pocket indicated, and with the air of an inexpert conjurer whose trick has succeeded contrary to his expectations produced a silver-plated fork.  He regarded it with surprise; then he looked wonderingly at Adams.

“Adams, I’m getting absent-minded.  Have you ever noticed any traces of absent-mindedness in me before?”

“Oh, no, your lordship.”

“Well, it’s deuced peculiar!  I have no recollection whatsoever of placing that fork in my pocket . . .  Adams, I want a taxicab.”  He glanced round the room, as though expecting to locate one by the fireplace.

“The hall porter will whistle one for you, your lordship.”

“So he will, by George!—­so he will!  Good day, Adams.”

“Good day, your lordship.”

The Earl of Emsworth ambled benevolently to the door, leaving Adams with the feeling that his day had been well-spent.  He gazed almost with reverence after the slow-moving figure.

“What a nut!” said Adams to his immortal soul.

Wafted through the sunlit streets in his taxicab, the Earl of Emsworth smiled benevolently on London’s teeming millions.  He was as completely happy as only a fluffy-minded old man with excellent health and a large income can be.  Other people worried about all sorts of things—­strikes, wars, suffragettes, the diminishing birth rate, the growing materialism of the age, a score of similar subjects.