Psmith, in the matter of decorating a study and preparing tea in it, was rather a critic than an executant. He was full of ideas, but he preferred to allow Mike to carry them out. It was he who suggested that the wooden bar which ran across the window was unnecessary, but it was Mike who wrenched it from its place. Similarly, it was Mike who abstracted the key from the door of the next study, though the idea was Psmith’s. “Privacy,” said Psmith, as he watched Mike light the Etna, “is what we chiefly need in this age of publicity. If you leave a study door unlocked in these strenuous times, the first thing you know is, somebody comes right in, sits down, and begins to talk about himself. I think with a little care we ought to be able to make this room quite decently comfortable. That putrid calendar must come down, though. Do you think you could make a long arm, and haul it off the parent tin-tack? Thanks. We make progress. We make progress.” “We shall jolly well make it out of the window,” said Mike, spooning up tea from a paper bag with a postcard, “if a sort of young Hackenschmidt turns up and claims the study. What are you going to do about it?” “Don’t let us worry about it. I have a presentiment that he will be an insignificant-looking little weed. How are you getting on with the evening meal?” “Just ready. What would you give to be at Eton now? I’d give something to be at Wrykyn.” “These school reports,” said Psmith sympathetically, “are the very dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hullo. What’s this, I wonder.” A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a suspicion that there would be any resistance. A rattling at the handle followed, and a voice outside said, “Dash the door!” “Hackenschmidt!” said Mike. “The weed,” said Psmith. “You couldn’t make a long arm, could you, and turn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind me later to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several bright things to say on the subject.” Mike unlocked the door, and flung it open. Framed in the entrance was a smallish, freckled boy, wearing a bowler hat and carrying a bag. On his face was an expression of mingled wrath and astonishment. Psmith rose courteously from his chair, and moved forward with slow stateliness to do the honours. “What the dickens,” inquired the newcomer, “are you doing here?” [Illustration: “WHAT THE DICKENS ARE YOU DOING HERE?”] “We were having a little tea,” said Psmith, “to restore our tissues after our journey. Come in and join us. We keep open house, we Psmiths. 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.