A feudal sense of what is fitting

I hatched a plan at breakfast-time, With jam, resolve, and buttered toast. “Indeed, sir,” said my man sublime, In tones that chilled me more than most. He never said, “You’re wrong, old chap,” Nor rolled his eyes or crossed the floor, Yet silence sprang a subtle trap — A knowledge one could not ignore. For Jeeves, you see, is firmly sworn To codes no leaflet ever taught: A feudal sense of what is fitting, born Before free thought was cheaply bought. The age may roar of choice and cheer, With games and songs of plastic glee, But keep the crowd amused, my dear, And no one asks who holds the key. So while I plan and boldly steer My future toward inventive ends, Jeeves waits — polite, with honor stands? Till facts and fate become his friends.