P. G. Wodehouse

“ Jimmy interposed firmly. “I'm very sorry,” he said, “but the fact is Miss McEachern has just promised to take me with her to feed the fowls.”
“I gamble on fowls,” he thought. “There must be some in a high-class establishment of this kind.”
“I'd quite forgotten,” said Molly.
“I thought you had. We'd better start at once. Nothing upsets a fowl more than having to wait for dinner.”
“Nonsense, me dear Molly,” said Mr. McEachern bluffly. “Run along and show Mr. Wesson the roses. Nobody wants to waste time over a bunch of hens.”
“Perhaps not,” said Jimmy thoughtfully, “perhaps not. ”

“ You're looking as strong as ever, Mr. McEachern.”
The ex-policeman grunted. In a conversational sense, he was sparring for wind.
Molly had regained her composure by this time. Her father was taking the thing better than she had expected.
“It's Jimmy, father, dear,” she said. “Jimmy Pitt.”
“Dear old James,” murmured the visitor.
“I know, me dear, I know. 'Wahye?”
“Still well,” replied Jimmy cheerfully. “Sitting up, you will notice,” he added, waving a hand in the direction of his teacup, “and taking nourishment, No further bulletins will be issued.”
“Jimmy is staying here, father. ”

“ McEachern, with an eagerness which broadened his questioner's friendly smile, as the Honorable Louis Wesson came toward them.
“Well, I'm not after saying it was not a wrinch at firrst, but I considered it best to lave Wall Street—Wall Street, ye understand, before——”
“I see. Before you fell a victim to the feverish desire for reckless speculation which is so marked a characteristic of the American business man, what?” ”