P. G. Wodehouse: The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

7. THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS (continued)

'Where else, dear uncle?' I say. 'In all Paris there is no such 'ome from 'ome. The cuisine--marvellous! The beds--of rose-leaves! The attendance--superb! If only for one night, I have said to myself, I must stay in this of all hotels.'

I 'ave--what do you say?--touched the spot.

'In what you say,' he has said, more calmly, 'there is certainly something. It is a good hotel, this of mine!'

The only hotel, I have assured him. The Meurice? Chut! I snap my fingers. The Ritz? Bah! Once again I snap my fingers. 'In all Paris there is no hotel like this.'

He 'as simmered down. His shirt is tucked in. 'Tell me again this plan of yours, Jean.'

When I leave 'im we have come to an understanding. It is agreed between us that I am to 'ave one last chance. He will not spoil this promising ship for the 'a'porth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. But he has said, as we part, if I fail, his 'ands shall be washed of me. He cannot now forget that I am his dear brother's child; but if I fail to accomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will be able to.

It is well. A week later I follow the 'Endersons to London.

For the next few days, monsieur, I am in Paradise. My 'ost has much nice 'ouse in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular. There is much society. And I--I have the succes fou. I am young, 'andsome, debonair. I cannot speak the English very well--not so well as I now speak 'im--but I manage. I get along. I am intelligent, amiable. Everyone loves me.