“See how we have trained them,” said Psmith. “They now knock before entering. There was a time when they would have tried to smash in a panel. Come in.” A small boy, carrying a straw hat adorned with the school-house ribbon, answered the invitation. “Oh, I say, Jackson,” he said, “the headmaster sent me over to tell you he wants to see you.” “I told you so,” said Mike to Psmith. “Don’t go,” suggested Psmith. “Tell him to write.” Mike got up. “All this is very trying,” said Psmith. “I’m seeing nothing of you to-day.” He turned to the small boy. “Tell Willie,” he added, “that Mr. Jackson will be with him in a moment.” The emissary departed. “_You’re_ all right,” said Psmith encouragingly. “Just you keep on saying you’re all right. Stout denial is the thing. Don’t go in for any airy explanations. Simply stick to stout denial. You can’t beat it.” With which expert advice, he allowed Mike to go on his way. He had not been gone two minutes, when Psmith, who had leaned back in his chair, wrapped in thought, heaved himself up again. He stood for a moment straightening his tie at the looking-glass; then he picked up his hat and moved slowly out of the door and down the passage. Thence, at the same dignified rate of progress, out of the house and in at Downing’s front gate. The postman was at the door when he got there, apparently absorbed in conversation with the parlour-maid. Psmith stood by politely till the postman, who had just been told it was like his impudence, caught sight of him, and, having handed over the letters in an ultra-formal and professional manner, passed away. “Is Mr. Downing at home?” inquired Psmith. He was, it seemed. Psmith was shown into the dining-room on the left of the hall, and requested to wait. He was examining a portrait of Mr. Downing which hung on the wall, when the housemaster came in. “An excellent likeness, sir,” said Psmith, with a gesture of the hand towards the painting. “Well, Smith,” said Mr. Downing shortly, “what do you wish to see me about?” “It was in connection with the regrettable painting of your dog, sir.” “Ha!” said Mr. Downing. “I did it, sir,” said Psmith, stopping and flicking a piece of fluff off his knee. CHAPTER LVIII THE ARTIST CLAIMS HIS WORK