The Unwritten Treatise

Lord Bartholomew, stroking his impeccably trimmed mustache, puffed out his chest for the visiting Baroness. "You see, Jeeves," he boomed, turning to his ever-stoic valet, "a man of my… *stature*… requires not merely comfort, but an environment that reflects the sheer *breadth* of his intellect. Fetch me, if you please, my latest treatise on the socio-economic implications of advanced cheese-making techniques." Jeeves, who had been polishing a silver snuff box with the intense focus of a surgeon, paused. He looked at the Lord, then at the Baroness, whose polite smile seemed to be battling a twitch. "Certainly, my Lord," Jeeves replied, his voice as flat as a perfectly pressed cravat. "The one you're still dictating the title for?" Lord Bartholomew's chest deflated slightly, his mustache drooping with it. The Baroness, however, let out a delightful snort that she tried to disguise as a particularly violent cough.