Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

It sprints like a mustang. It did so now, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing down the road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band of six, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven.

Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping the first glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting vin ordinaire while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixture of English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping to chase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely for refreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had every confidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues.

It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphed over prudence in George’s soul that the advisability of lying hid in his hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediately after breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for the Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee to hand over the two louis to their owner.

Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politely genial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers.

She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book.

“Good morning,” he said.

She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flush was back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look of astonishment in the grey eyes.

He held out the two louis.

“I couldn’t give them to you last night,” he said.

A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before.

“I say,” he stammered⁠—“I say, I hope you don’t think I had run off with your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn’t give them up, you know, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis. You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake. I⁠—”

An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind a parasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly into speech.

“Who is this young man?”

George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of her presence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother⁠—or aunt. She looked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, his charging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat with her daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justify himself.

“I met your⁠—this young lady”⁠—something told him that was not the proper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?⁠—“at the casino last night.”

He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable. Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. She stared at the girl.

“So you were gambling at the casino last night?” she said.

She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.

“I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financial transactions with your⁠—friend, I should like to speak to you. You will find me in my room.”

George looked after her dumbly.

The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speaking to herself.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m glad.”

George was concerned.

“I’m afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia.”

There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then they lit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly at first, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humour of the situation⁠—and he had not detected it at present⁠—this mirth, he felt, was unnatural and excessive.

She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she said, abruptly. “I’m sorry. There was nothing funny in what you said. But I’m not Lady Julia, and I have no mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing more important than her companion.”

“Her companion!”

“I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I had strict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her⁠—and I went.”

“Then⁠—then I’ve lost you your job⁠—I mean, your position! If it hadn’t been for me she wouldn’t have known. I⁠—”

“You have done me a great service,” she said. “You have cut the painter for me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage to cut it for myself. I don’t suppose you know what it is to get into a groove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother has been writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn’t the courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out of grooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy⁠—at least, not unhappy; so⁠—well, there it was. I suppose women are like that.”

“And now⁠—?”

“And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob by the first boat.”

He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick.

“It’s a hard life out there,” he said.

“But it is a life.”

He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very far away⁠—in another world.

“Look here,” he said, hoarsely, and stopped. “May I sit down?” he asked, abruptly. “I’ve got something to say, and I can’t say it when I’m looking at you.”

He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchor against the cloudless sky.

“Look here,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went on doggedly.

“I know,” he said, “we only met yesterday. You probably think I’m mad.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” she said, quietly. “I only think you’re too quixotic. You’re sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carry you away, as you did