A Fine Wodehousian Dorg named Percy Meets Bertie Wooster:

A few moments passed, self inhaling fluff and the solid girl presumably scanning her paper for further facts about the leg-before-wicket rule and then I heard her say “Sit still'’, no doubt addressing the white, woolly dog, for shortly afterwards she said “Oh, all right, blast you, buzz off if you want to”, and there was a thud; not a dull, sickening thud but the sort of thud a white, woolly dog makes when landing on a carpet from a sofa of medium height. And it was almost immediately after this that there came a sound of sniffing in my vicinity, and with a considerable lowering of the already low morale I realized that the animal must have picked up the characteristic Wooster smell and was now in the process of tracking it to its source.

And so it proved. Glancing round, I suddenly found its face about six inches from mine, its demeanour that of a dog that can hardly believe its eyes. Backing away with a startled ‘Oops!’ it retreated to the centre of the room and began barking.

“What’s the matter, you silly ass?” said the solid girl, and then there was a silence. On her part, that is. The white, woolly dog continued to strain its vocal cords.

Madeline Bassett re-entered. “Jane says," she began, then broke off with a piercing scream. “Hilda! Oh, Hilda, what are you doing with that pistol?”

The solid girl calmed her fears, though leaving mine in status quo. "Don’t get excited. I'm not going to shoot myself. Though it would be a pretty good idea, at that. There’s a man behind the sofa."

“Hilda!”

“I've been wondering for some time where that curious breathing sound was coming from. Percy spotted him. Atta-boy, Percy, nice work. Come on out of it, you." Rightly concluding that she meant me, I emerged, and Madeline uttered another of her piercing screams.

--The Mating Season, 1949