He was in bed, but that did not remove the suspicion which had been growing in me all the afternoon that he was a low malingerer. I refused to believe for a moment in that sprained ankle of his. My view was that he had had the advantage of a first look at Flossie’s mother and her engaging child and had shrewdly passed them on to me. “I’ve been reading your book, old man,” said Ukridge, breaking a pregnant silence with an overdone carelessness. He brandished winningly the only novel I had ever written, and I can offer no better proof of the black hostility of my soul than the statement that even this did not soften me. “It’s immense, laddie. No other word for it. Immense. Damme, I’ve been crying like a child.” “It is supposed to be a humorous novel,” I pointed out, coldly. “Crying with laughter,” explained Ukridge, hurriedly. I eyed him with loathing. “Where do you keep your blunt instruments?” I asked. “My what?” “Your blunt instrument. I want a blunt instrument. Give me a blunt instrument. My God! Don’t tell me you have no blunt instrument.” “Only a safety-razor.” I sat down wearily on the bed. “Hi! Mind my ankle!” “Your ankle!” I laughed a hideous laugh, the sort of laugh the landlady’s brother might have emitted before beginning operations on James Potter. “A lot there is the matter with your ankle.” “Sprained it yesterday, old man. Nothing serious,” said Ukridge, reassuringly. “Just enough to lay me up for a couple of days.” “Yes, till that ghastly female and her blighted boy had got well away.” Pained astonishment was written all over Ukridge’s face. “You don’t mean to say you didn’t like her? Why, I thought you two would be all over each other.” “And I suppose you thought that Cecil and I would be twin souls?” “Cecil?” said Ukridge, doubtfully. “Well, to tell you the truth, old man, I’m not saying that Cecil doesn’t take a bit of knowing. He’s the sort of boy you have to be patient with and bring out, if you understand what I mean. I think he grows on you.” “If he ever tries to grow on me, I’ll have him amputated.” “Well, putting all that on one side,” said Ukridge, “how did things go off?” I described the afternoon’s activities in a few tense words. “Well, I’m sorry, old horse,” said Ukridge, when I had finished. “I can’t say more than that, can I? I’m sorry. I give you my solemn word I didn’t know what I was letting you in for. But it was a life and death matter. There was no other way out. Flossie insisted on it. Wouldn’t budge an inch.” In my anguish I had forgotten all about the impenetrable mystery of Flossie. “Who the devil is Flossie?” I asked. “What! Flossie? You don’t know who Flossie is? My dear old man, collect yourself. You must remember Flossie. The barmaid at the Crown in Kennington. The girl Battling Billson is engaged to. Surely you haven’t forgotten Flossie? Why, she was saying only yesterday that you had nice eyes.”