Free Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse

about accepting expensive umbrellas from people. Where shall I send it?’
    ‘If you insist, you may send it to the Hon. Hugo Walderwick, Drones Club, Dover Street. But it really isn’t necessary.’
    ‘I won’t forget. And thank you very much, Mr Walderwick.’
    ‘Why do you call me that?’
    ‘Well, you said . . .’
    Ah, I see. A slight confusion of ideas. No, I am not Mr Walderwick. And between ourselves I should hate to be. His is a very C3 intelligence. Comrade Walderwick is merely the man to whom the umbrella belongs.’
    Eve’s eyes opened wide.
    ‘Do you mean to say you gave me somebody else’s umbrella?’
    ‘I had unfortunately omitted to bring my own out with me this morning.’
    ‘I never heard of such a thing!’
    ‘Merely practical Socialism. Other people are content to talk about the Redistribution of Property. I go out and do it.’
    ‘But won’t he be awfully angry when he finds out it has gone?’
    ‘He has found out. And it was pretty to see his delight. I explained the circumstances, and he was charmed to have been of service to you.’
    The door opened again, and this time it was Miss Clarkson in person who entered. She had found Enquiries’ statement over the speaking-tube rambling and unsatisfactory, and had come to investigate for herself the reason why the machinery of the office was being held up.
    ‘Oh, I must go,’ said Eve, as she saw her. ‘I’m interrupting your business.’
    ‘I’m so glad you’re still here, dear,’ said Miss Clarkson. ‘I have just been looking over my files, and I see that there is one vacancy. For a nurse,’ said Miss Clarkson with a touch of the apologetic in her voice.
    ‘Oh, no, that’s all right,’ said Eve. ‘I don’t really need anything. But thanks ever so much for bothering.’
    She smiled affectionately upon the proprietress, bestowed another smile upon Psmith as he opened the door for her, and went out. Psmith turned away from the door with a thoughtful look upon his face.
    ‘Is that young lady a nurse?’ he asked.
    ‘Do you want a nurse?’ inquired Miss Clarkson, at once the woman of business.
    ‘I want that nurse,’ said Psmith with conviction.
    ‘She is a delightful girl,’ said Miss Clarkson with enthusiasm. ‘There is no one in whom I would feel more confidence in recommending to a position. She is a Miss Halliday, the daughter of a very clever but erratic writer, who died some years ago. I can speak with particular knowledge of Miss Halliday, for I was for many years an assistant mistress at Wayland House, where she was at school. She is a charming, warm-hearted, impulsive girl. . . . But you will hardly want to hear all this.’
    ‘On the contrary,’ said Psmith, ‘I could listen for hours. You have stumbled upon my favourite subject.’
    Miss Clarkson eyed him a little doubtfully, and decided that it would be best to reintroduce the business theme.
    ‘Perhaps, when you say you are looking for a nurse, you mean you need a hospital nurse?’
    ‘My friends have sometimes suggested it.’
    ‘Miss Halliday’s greatest experience has, of course, been as a governess.’
    ‘A governess is just as good,’ said Psmith agreeably.
    Miss Clarkson began to be conscious of a sensation of being out of her depth.
    ‘How old are your children, sir?’ she asked.
    ‘I fear,’ said Psmith, ‘you are peeping into Volume Two. This romance has only just started.’
    ‘I am afraid,’ said Miss Clarkson, now completely fogged, ‘I do not quite understand. What exactly are you looking for?’
    Psmith flicked a speck of fluff from his coat-sleeve.
    ‘A job,’ he said.
    ‘A job!’ echoed Miss Clarkson, her voice breaking in an amazed squeak.
    Psmith raised his eyebrows.
    ‘You seem surprised. Isn’t this a job emporium?’
    ‘This is an Employment Bureau,’ admitted Miss Clarkson.
    ‘I knew it, I knew it,’ said Psmith. ‘Something seemed to tell me. Possibly it was the legend “Employment Bureau” over the