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Aunt Dahlia was guilty of no exaggeration when she described Roberta Wickham as a one-girl beauty chorus. But while equipped with eyes like twin stars, hair ruddier than the cherry, oomph, espieglerie and all the fixings, Roberta had also the disposition and general outlook on life of a ticking bomb. You never knew what she was going to do next or into what murky depths of soup she would carelessly plunge you.
. And to Bertie Wooster these depths could not have been deeper nor more murky than at the moment he drew up in front of Brinkley Court. For beneath this hospitable roof was assembled a company of guests which included the aforesaid Miss Wickham, that tick of ticks, the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, and an American female novelist whose son was suspected of being screwball. And, as if these were not enough, lurking in the background, masquerading as a most unlikely butler, was that most celebrated of all looney doctors, Sir Roderick Glossop.
Had Jeeves been at his elbow, Bertie would doubtless have taken this situation triumphantly in his stride. But, alas, Jeeves was not there. He had taken himself off to some distant resort whence he held a watching brief, advising and encouraging, but allowing the Young Master to make of it what he could. The result is a riotously funny story in the traditional Wodehouse manner.