He had not been gone two minutes, when Psmith, who had leaned back in
his chair, rapt in thought, heaved himself up again. He stood for a
moment straightening his tie at the looking glass; then he picked up his
hat and moved slowly out of the door and down the passage. Thence, at
the same dignified rate of progress, out of the house and in at
Downing's front gate.
The postman was at the door when he got there, apparently absorbed in
conversation with the parlor maid. Psmith stood by politely till the
postman, who had just been told it was like his impudence, caught sight
of him, and, having handed over the letters in an ultraformal and
professional manner, passed away.
"Is Mr. Downing at home?" inquired Psmith.
He was, it seemed. Psmith was shown into the dining room on the left of
the hall, and requested to wait. He was examining a portrait of Mr.
Downing which hung on the wall when the housemaster came in.
"An excellent likeness, sir," said Psmith, with a gesture of the hand
toward the painting.
"Well, Smith," said Mr. Downing shortly, "what do you wish to see me
about?"
"It was in connection with the regrettable painting of your dog, sir.
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