Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

did a sort of twiddly on the turf with his foot. And, when he spoke, one spotted the tremolo in the voice:

“You really think that?”

“Absolutely.”

“H’m.”

“If you were to go to her⁠—”

He shook his head.

“I can’t do that. It would be fatal. Bing, instantly, would go my prestige. I know girls. Grovel, and the best of them get uppish.” He mused. “The only way to work the thing would be by tipping her off in some indirect way that I am prepared to open negotiations. Should I sigh a bit when we meet, do you think?”

“She would think you were puffing.”

“That’s true.”

I lit another cigarette and gave my mind to the matter. And first crack out of the box, as is so often the way with the Woosters, I got an idea. I remembered the counsel I had given Gussie in the matter of the sausages and ham.

“I’ve got it, Tuppy. There is one infallible method of indicating to a girl that you love her, and it works just as well when you’ve had a row and want to make it up. Don’t eat any dinner tonight. You can see how impressive that would be. She knows how devoted you are to food.”

He started violently.

“I am not devoted to food!”

“No, no.”

“I am not devoted to food at all.”

“Quite. All I meant⁠—”

“This rot about me being devoted to food,” said Tuppy warmly, “has got to stop. I am young and healthy and have a good appetite, but that’s not the same as being devoted to food. I admire Anatole as a master of his craft, and am always willing to consider anything he may put before me, but when you say I am devoted to food⁠—”

“Quite, quite. All I meant was that if she sees you push away your dinner untasted, she will realize that your heart is aching, and will probably be the first to suggest blowing the all clear.”

Tuppy was frowning thoughtfully.

“Push my dinner away, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Push away a dinner cooked by Anatole?”

“Yes.”

“Push it away untasted?”

“Yes.”

“Let us get this straight. Tonight, at dinner, when the butler offers me a ris de veau à la financiere, or whatever it may be, hot from Anatole’s hands, you wish me to push it away untasted?”

“Yes.”

He chewed his lip. One could sense the struggle going on within. And then suddenly a sort of glow came into his face. The old martyrs probably used to look like that.

“All right.”

“You’ll do it?”

“I will.”

“Fine.”

“Of course, it will be agony.”

I pointed out the silver lining.

“Only for the moment. You could slip down tonight, after everyone is in bed, and raid the larder.”

He brightened.

“That’s right. I could, couldn’t I?”

“I expect there would be something cold there.”

“There is something cold there,” said Tuppy, with growing cheerfulness. “A steak-and-kidney pie. We had it for lunch today. One of Anatole’s ripest. The thing I admire about that man,” said Tuppy reverently, “the thing that I admire so enormously about Anatole is that, though a Frenchman, he does not, like so many of these chefs, confine himself exclusively to French dishes, but is always willing and ready to weigh in with some good old simple English fare such as this steak-and-kidney pie to which I have alluded. A masterly pie, Bertie, and it wasn’t more than half finished. It will do me nicely.”

“And at dinner you will push, as arranged?”

“Absolutely as arranged.”

“Fine.”

“It’s an excellent idea. One of Jeeves’s best. You can tell him from me, when you see him, that I’m much obliged.”

The cigarette fell from my fingers. It was as though somebody had slapped Bertram Wooster across the face with a wet dishrag.

“You aren’t suggesting that you think this scheme I have been sketching out is Jeeves’s?”

“Of course it is. It’s no good trying to kid me, Bertie. You wouldn’t have thought of a wheeze like that in a million years.”

There was a pause. I drew myself up to my full height; then, seeing that he wasn’t looking at me, lowered myself again.

“Come, Glossop,” I said coldly, “we had better be going. It is time we were dressing for dinner.”

IX

Tuppy’s fatheaded words were still rankling in my bosom as I went up to my room. They continued rankling as I shed the form-fitting, and had not ceased to rankle when, clad in the old dressing-gown, I made my way along the corridor to the salle de bain.

It is not too much to say that I was piqued to the tonsils.

I mean to say, one does not court praise. The adulation of the multitude means very little to one. But, all the same, when one has taken the trouble to whack out a highly juicy scheme to benefit an in-the-soup friend in his hour of travail, it’s pretty foul to find him giving the credit to one’s personal attendant, particularly if that personal attendant is a man who goes about the place not packing mess-jackets.

But after I had been splashing about in the porcelain for a bit, composure began to return. I have always found that in moments of heart-bowed-downness there is nothing that calms the bruised spirit like a good go at the soap and water. I don’t say I actually sang in the tub, but there were times when it was a mere spin of the coin whether I would do so or not.

The spiritual anguish induced by that tactless speech had become noticeably lessened.

The discovery of a toy duck in the soap dish, presumably the property of some former juvenile visitor, contributed not a little to this new and happier frame of mind. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t played with toy ducks in my bath for years, and I found the novel experience most invigorating. For the benefit of those interested, I may mention that if you shove the thing under the surface with the sponge and then let it go, it shoots out of the water in a manner calculated to divert the most careworn. Ten minutes