Let me introduce you to Comrade Jackson. A stout fellow.
Homely in appearance, perhaps, but one of us. I am Psmith. Your own
name will doubtless come up in the course of general chit-chat over
the tea-cups."
"My name's Spiller, and this is my study."
Psmith leaned against the mantelpiece, put up his eyeglass, and
harangued Spiller in a philosophical vein.
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen," said he, "the saddest are these:
'It might have been.' Too late! That is the bitter cry. If you had
torn yourself from the bosom of the Spiller family by an earlier
train, all might have been well. But no. Your father held your hand
and said huskily, 'Edwin, don't leave us!' Your mother clung to you
weeping, and said, 'Edwin, stay!' Your sisters----"
"I want to know what----"
"Your sisters froze on to your knees like little octopuses (or
octopi), and screamed, 'Don't go, Edwin!' And so," said Psmith, deeply
affected by his recital, "you stayed on till the later train; and, on
arrival, you find strange faces in the familiar room, a people that
know not Spiller." Psmith went to the table, and cheered himself with
a sip of tea. Spiller's sad case had moved him greatly.
The victim of Fate seemed in no way consoled.
"It's beastly cheek, that's what I call it. Are you new chaps?"
"The very latest thing," said Psmith.
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