‘The afternoon post, m’lord,’ he announced, and Lord Emsworth, looking up from his book – he was reading Whiffle on The Care Of The Pig – said: ‘Ah, the afternoon post? The afternoon post, eh? Quite. Quite.’ His sister, Lady Constance Keeble, might, and frequently did, complain of his vagueness – (‘Oh, for goodness sake, Clarence, don’t gape like that!’) – but he could on occasion be as quick at the uptake as the next man. ‘Yes, yes, to be sure, the afternoon post,’ he said, fully abreast. ‘Capital. Thank you, Beach. Put it on the table.’ ‘Very good, m’lord. Pardon me, m’lord, can you see Sir Gregory Parsloe?’ ‘No,’ said Lord Emsworth, having glanced about the room and failed to do so. ‘Where is he?’ ‘Sir Gregory telephoned a few moments ago to say that he would be glad of a word with your lordship. He informed me that he was about to walk to the castle.’ Lord Emsworth blinked. ‘Walk?’ ‘So Sir Gregory gave me to understand, m’lord.’ ‘What does he want to walk for?’ ‘I could not say, m’lord.’ ‘It’s three miles each way, and about the hottest day we’ve had this summer.
