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

Henry belonged to the large circle of human beings who consider that there is acuter pleasure in being suddenly cured of toothache than in never having toothache at all.

He merely chuckled inwardly, therefore, when, on the morning of her birthday, having presented her with a purse which he knew she had long coveted, he found himself thanked in a perfunctory and mechanical way.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said.

Minnie looked at the purse without enthusiasm.

“It’s just what I wanted,” she said, listlessly.

“Well, I must be going. I’ll get the tickets for the theatre while I’m in town.”

Minnie hesitated for a moment.

“I don’t believe I want to go to the theatre much tonight, Henry.”

“Nonsense. We must have a party on your birthday. We’ll go to the theatre and then we’ll have supper at Geisenheimer’s again. I may be working after hours at the bank today, so I guess I won’t come home. I’ll meet you at that Italian place at six.”

“Very well. You’ll miss your walk, then?”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter for once.”

“No. You’re still going on with your walks, then?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Three miles every day?”

“Never miss it. It keeps me well.”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye, darling.”

“Goodbye.”

Yes, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere. Thank goodness, thought Henry, as he walked to the station, it would be different tomorrow morning. He had rather the feeling of a young knight who has done perilous deeds in secret for his lady, and is about at last to receive credit for them.

Geisenheimer’s was as brilliant and noisy as it had been before when Henry reached it that night, escorting a reluctant Minnie. After a silent dinner and a theatrical performance during which neither had exchanged more than a word between the acts, she had wished to abandon the idea of supper and go home. But a squad of police could not have kept Henry from Geisenheimer’s. His hour had come. He had thought of this moment for weeks, and he visualized every detail of his big scene. At first they would sit at their table in silent discomfort. Then Sidney Mercer would come up, as before, to ask Minnie to dance. And then⁠—then⁠—Henry would rise and, abandoning all concealment, exclaim grandly: “No! I am going to dance with my wife!” Stunned amazement of Minnie, followed by wild joy. Utter rout and discomfiture of that pinhead, Mercer. And then, when they returned to their table, he breathing easily and regularly as a trained dancer in perfect condition should, she tottering a little with the sudden rapture of it all, they would sit with their heads close together and start a new life. That was the scenario which Henry had drafted.

It worked out⁠—up to a certain point⁠—as smoothly as ever it had done in his dreams. The only hitch which he had feared⁠—to wit, the nonappearance of Sidney Mercer, did not occur. It would spoil the scene a little, he had felt, if Sidney Mercer did not present himself to play the role of foil; but he need have had no fears on this point. Sidney had the gift, not uncommon in the chinless, smooth-baked type of man, of being able to see a pretty girl come into the restaurant even when his back was towards the door. They had hardly seated themselves when he was beside their table bleating greetings.

“Why, Henry! Always here!”

“Wife’s birthday.”

“Many happy returns of the day, Mrs. Mills. We’ve just time for one turn before the waiter comes with your order. Come along.”

The band was staggering into a fresh tune, a tune that Henry knew well. Many a time had Mme. Gavarni hammered it out of an aged and unwilling piano in order that he might dance with her blue-eyed niece. He rose.

“No!” he exclaimed grandly. “I am going to dance with my wife!”

He had not underestimated the sensation which he had looked forward to causing. Minnie looked at him with round eyes. Sidney Mercer was obviously startled.

“I thought you couldn’t dance.”

“You never can tell,” said Henry, lightly. “It looks easy enough. Anyway, I’ll try.”

“Henry!” cried Minnie, as he clasped her.

He had supposed that she would say something like that, but hardly in that kind of voice. There is a way of saying “Henry!” which conveys surprised admiration and remorseful devotion; but she had not said it in that way. There had been a note of horror in her voice. Henry’s was a simple mind, and the obvious solution, that Minnie thought that he had drunk too much red wine at the Italian restaurant, did not occur to him.

He was, indeed, at the moment too busy to analyse vocal inflections. They were on the floor now, and it was beginning to creep upon him like a chill wind that the scenario which he had mapped out was subject to unforeseen alterations.

At first all had been well. They had been almost alone on the floor, and he had begun moving his feet along dotted line A B with the smooth vim which had characterized the last few of his course of lessons. And then, as if by magic, he was in the midst of a crowd⁠—a mad, jigging crowd that seemed to have no sense of direction, no ability whatever to keep out of his way. For a moment the tuition of weeks stood by him. Then, a shock, a stifled cry from Minnie, and the first collision had occurred. And with that all the knowledge which he had so painfully acquired passed from Henry’s mind, leaving it an agitated blank. This was a situation for which his slidings round an empty room had not prepared him. Stage-fright at its worst came upon him. Somebody charged him in the back and asked querulously where he thought he was going. As he turned with a half-formed notion of apologizing, somebody else rammed him from the other side. He had a momentary feeling as if he were going down the Niagara Rapids in a barrel, and then he was lying on the floor with Minnie on top of him. Somebody tripped