....'One is inclined to describe this wasp as the Wasp of Fate. Only by supposing it an instrument of destiny can one account for its presence that morning in the small bar of Barribault's Hotel. Even in the country its arrival on the twelfth of May would have been unusual, the official wasping season not beginning till well on into July, and how it came to be in the heart of London's steel and brick at such a time is a problem from which speculation recoils.
....Still there it was, and for a space it volplaned and looped the loop about Lord Shortlands' nose, occasioning him no little concern. It then settled down for a brief breather on the back of Stanwood's coat, and Lord Shortlands, feeling that this was an opportunity which might not occur again, remembering his swashing blow, like Gregory in Romeo and Juliet, and downed it in its tracks with a large, flat hand.
....A buffet between the shoulder blades does something to a man who is drinking a cocktail at the moment. Stanwood choked and turned purple. Recovering his breath, he said (with some justice) "Hey!", and Lord Shortlands hastened to explain. He said:
...."Wasp," repeated Lord Shortlands, and with a pointing finger directed the other's attention to the remains. "Wasp," he added, driving the thing home.
....Stanwood viewed the body, and all doubt concerning the purity of his preserver's motives left him.
...."Wasp," he said, fully concurring.
...."Wasp," said Lord Shortlands, summing the thing up rather neatly. "Messing about on your back. I squashed it."
...."Darned good of you."
...."Not at all."
...."No, no. Perhaps a certain presence of mind. Nothing more. Offer you a cocktail?"
...."Or me you?"
...."No, me you."
...."Well, you me this time," said Stanwood, yielding the point with a pleasant grace. "But next time me you." ' ~P.G. Wodehouse, Spring Fever