“ffinch-ffarrowmere,” corrected the visitor, his sensitive ear detecting the capital letters.

I picked up The Clicking of Cuthbert by P. G. Wodehouse last night and read the first story.  I have read the volume before, probably two or three times.  But as is always the case with Wodehouse, the humor is always refreshing.  Nothing like launching into sleep on the curl of a sonorous chortle.

Ann Althouse has a somewhat Wodehousian post today headed "They’re unable to see properly, they’re confused, they’re having hallucinations. And we’re talking about scary hallucinations; it’s nothing that’s fun."

It is about an outbreak of hallucinations in Australia owing to consumption of tainted spinach.  

From there, given a cited British expert whose surname illustrates the phenomenon, she comments:

Also interesting is that strange old phenomenon, British surnames that begin with "ff" — with no uppercase. Grammarphobia discussed this a few years ago. 

From there she references an earlier post she had made in which she alludes to a short story from 1926 A Slice of Life by P. G. Wodehouse.  Wilfred has fallen in love with a young woman, who cannot marry without the approval of her guardian.  I excerpt a longer extract:

But, some days after his return to London, whither the girl had preceded him, he had occasion to recall her words. As he sat in his study, musing on a preparation to cure the pip in canaries, a card was brought to him.

“Sir Jasper ffinch-ffarrowmere, Bart.,” he read.

The name was strange to him.

“Show the gentleman in,” he said.

And presently there entered a very stout man with a broad, pink face. It was a face whose natural expression should, Wilfred felt, have been jovial, but at the moment it was grave.

“Sir Jasper Finch-Farrowmere?” said Wilfred.

“ffinch-ffarrowmere,” corrected the visitor, his sensitive ear detecting the capital letters.

“Ah, yes. You spell it with two small f’s.”

“Four small f’s.”

“And to what do I owe the honor—?”

“I am Angela Purdue’s guardian.”

“How do you do? A whisky-and-soda?”

“I thank you, no. I am a total abstainer. I found that alcohol had a tendency to increase my weight, so I gave it up. I have also given up butter, potatoes, soups of all kinds, and— However,” he broke off, the fanatic gleam that comes into the eyes of all fat men who are describing their system of diet fading away, “this is not a social call, and I must not take up your time with idle talk. I have a message for you, Mr. Mulliner. From Angela.”

“Bless her!” said Wilfred. “Sir Jasper, I love that girl with a fervor that increases daily.”

“Is that so?” said the baronet. “Well, what I came to say was, it’s all off.”

“What!”

“All off. She sent me to say that she had thought it over and wanted to break the engagement.”

Wilfred’s eyes narrowed. He had not forgotten what Angela had said about this man wanting her to marry his son. He gazed piercingly at his visitor, no longer deceived by the superficial geniality of his appearance. He had read too many detective stories where the fat, jolly, red-faced man turns out a fiend in human shape, to be a ready victim to appearances.

“Indeed?” he said coldly. “I should prefer to have this information from Miss Purdue’s own lips.”

“She won’t see you. But, anticipating this attitude on your part, I brought a letter from her. You recognize the writing?”

Wilfred took the letter. Certainly, the hand was Angela’s, and the meaning of the words he read unmistakable. Nevertheless, as he handed the missive back there was a hard smile on his face.

“There is such a thing as writing a letter under compulsion,” he said.

The baronet’s pink face turned mauve.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“What I say.”

“Are you insinuating—?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Pooh, sir!”

“Pooh, sir!”

“Pooh to you!” said Wilfred. “And, if you want to know what I think, you poor ffish, I believe your name is spelled with a capital F, like anybody else’s.”

Stung to the quick, the baronet turned on his heel and left the room without uttering another word.