CHAPTER VIII

"Bunter!" "My lord?" Wimsey tapped with his fingers a letter he had just received. "Do you feel at your brightest and most truly fascinating? Does a livelier iris, winter weather notwithstanding, shine upon the burnished Bunter? Have you got that sort of conquering feeling? The Don Juan touch, so to speak?" Bunter, balancing the breakfast tray on his fingers, coughed deprecatingly. "You have a good, upstanding, impressive figure, if I may say so," pursued Wimsey, "a bold and roving eye when off duty, a ready tongue…