Worrying, indeed, seemed to be the twentieth-century specialty.  Lord Emsworth never worried.  Nature had equipped him with a mind so admirably constructed for withstanding the disagreeableness of life that if an unpleasant thought entered it, it passed out again a moment later.  Except for a few of life’s fundamental facts, such as that his check book was in the right-hand top drawer of his desk; that the Honorable Freddie Threepwood was a young idiot who required perpetual restraint; and that when in doubt about anything he had merely to apply to his secretary, Rupert Baxter—­except for these basic things, he never remembered anything for more than a few minutes.

At Eton, in the sixties, they had called him Fathead.

His was a life that lacked, perhaps, the sublimer emotions which raise man to the level of the gods; but undeniably it was an extremely happy one.  He never experienced the thrill of ambition fulfilled; but, on the other hand, he never knew the agony of ambition frustrated.  His name, when he died, would not live forever in England’s annals; he was spared the pain of worrying about this by the fact that he had no desire to live forever in England’s annals.  He was possibly as nearly contented as a human being could be in this century of alarms and excursions.

Indeed, as he bowled along in his cab and reflected that a really charming girl, not in the chorus of any West End theater, a girl with plenty of money and excellent breeding, had—­in a moment, doubtless, of mental aberration—­become engaged to be married to the Honorable Freddie, he told himself that life at last was absolutely without a crumpled rose leaf.

The cab drew up before a house gay with flowered window boxes.  Lord Emsworth paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk looking up at this cheerful house, trying to remember why on earth he had told the man to drive there.

A few moments’ steady thought gave him the answer to the riddle.  This was Mr. Peters’ town house, and he had come to it by invitation to look at Mr. Peters’ collection of scarabs.  To be sure!  He remembered now—­his collection of scarabs.  Or was it Arabs?

Lord Emsworth smiled.  Scarabs, of course.  You couldn’t collect Arabs.  He wondered idly, as he rang the bell, what scarabs might be; but he was interested in a fluffy kind of way in all forms of collecting, and he was very pleased to have the opportunity of examining these objects; whatever they were.  He rather thought they were a kind of fish.

There are men in this world who cannot rest; who are so constituted that they can only take their leisure in the shape of a change of work.  To this fairly numerous class belonged Mr. J. Preston Peters, father of Freddie’s Aline.  And to this merit—­or defect—­is to be attributed his almost maniacal devotion to that rather unattractive species of curio, the Egyptian scarab.

Five years before, a nervous breakdown had sent Mr. Peters to a New York specialist.  The specialist had grown rich on similar cases and his advice was always the same.  He insisted on Mr. Peters taking up a hobby.