“Do you like the name Mabel?”
“You don’t think there’s a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through the tree-tops?”
He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.
“Of course, you wouldn’t. You always were a fatheaded worm without any soul, weren’t you?”
“Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all.”
A little Wodehouse is good for what ails you, much of the time, anyway. The foregoing is from the short story “Jeeves in the Springtime.”