Mike and Psmith by P. G. Wodehouse

If Mike had been in time for breakfast that fatal Easter morning he might have gathered from the expression on his father’s face, as Mr. Jackson opened the envelope containing his school report and read the contents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean of praise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike always was late for breakfast in the holidays.

When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearly over. Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him; Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared the thing had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis and Ella for the jam, while Marjory, recently affecting a grown-up air, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these juvenile gambols distressed her.

“Hello, Mike,” she said, jumping up as he entered, “here you are—I’ve been keeping everything hot for you.”

“Have you? Thanks awfully. I say …” His eye wandered in mild surprise round the table. “I’m a bit late.”