Dedication: To my daughter Leonora without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would… — P.G. Wodehouse

While they were content to peck cautiously at the ball, he never spared himself in his efforts to do it a violent injury.

Bradbury Fisher shuddered from head to foot, and his legs wobbled like asparagus stalks.

Blizzard was of the fine old school of butlers. His appearance suggested that for fifteen years he had not let a day pass without its pint of port. He radiated port and pop-eyed dignity. He had splay feet and three chins, and when he walked his curving waistcoat preceded him like the advance guard of some royal procession.