Foreign News: Jeeves Grieves

The atmosphere in the Drones' Club was thickly postprandial, a pleasant miasma of tobacco smoke, port, fizz water splashing into amber whiskey, just as Old Plum—Pelham Grenville (P. G.) Wodehouse to you—had often described it.

Bertie Wooster, pensive on a leather sofa, brooded alternately about his aunt's unreasonableness and the subject all the chaps had been champing at dinner—Old Plum's incredible antics in Berlin.

"It's not so much his posh rooms at the Adlon, if you know what I mean, though they're in ghastly taste," mused Bertie. "After all, Plum has oceans of...

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