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

you have ever done or ever wanted to do.”

“Does he have that effect on you?” he said, excitedly. “Why, that exactly describes what I feel.”

The affinities looked at one another.

She was the first to speak.

“We always did think alike on most things, didn’t we?” she said.

“Of course we did.”

He shifted his chair forward.

“It was all my fault,” he said. “I mean, what happened.”

“It wasn’t. It⁠—”

“Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don’t know if it will make any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It’s this. I’ve altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, I think. I’m a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don’t imagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don’t judge the world any longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked some of the corners off me. I don’t think you would find me the Bean type any longer. I don’t disapprove of other people much now. Not as a habit. I find I have enough to do keeping myself up to the mark.”

“I want to tell you something, too,” she said. “I expect it’s too late, but never mind. I want you to hear it. I’ve altered, too, since I came to London. I used to think the Universe had been invented just to look on and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a large piece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I’m not the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed, and not have too bad a time when the day’s work is over.”

He came across to where she sat.

“We said we would meet as strangers, and we do. We never have known each other. Don’t you think we had better get acquainted?” he said.

There was a respectful tap at the door.

“Come in?” snapped Mr. Ferguson. “Well?” Behind the gold-rimmed spectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a look rather complacent than disapproving.

“I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in your employment, but I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgive my entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just now an idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled to leave the building.”

“What!”

“It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearest police-station⁠—”

“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Ferguson.

Two minutes later he replaced the receiver.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve made them understand the trouble. They’re bringing a ladder. I wonder what the time is? It must be about four in the morning.”

Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch.

“The time, sir, is almost exactly half past ten.”

“Half past ten! We must have been here longer than three hours. Your watch is wrong.”

“No, sir, I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish to run any risk of being unpunctual.”

“Half past ten!” cried Mr. Ferguson. “Why, we’re in heaps of time to look in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I’ll phone them to keep a table.”

“Supper! I thought⁠—”

She stopped.

“What’s that? Thought what?”

“Hadn’t you an engagement for supper?”

He stared at her.

“Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not.”

“I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton⁠—”

“Miss Temp⁠—Oh!” His face cleared. “Oh, there isn’t such a person. I invented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend the Miasma. Legitimate self-defence.”

“I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,” said Master Bean, “but⁠—”

“Come and see me tomorrow morning,” said Mr. Ferguson.

“Bob,” said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from the orchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, “when that boy comes tomorrow, what are going to do?”

“Call up the police.”

“No, but you must do something. We shouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been for him.”

“That’s true!” He pondered. “I’ve got it; I’ll get him a job with Raikes and Courtenay.”

“Why Raikes and Courtenay?”

“Because I have a pull with them. But principally,” said Mr. Ferguson, with a devilish grin, “because they live in Edinburgh, which, as you are doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London.”

He bent across the table.

“Isn’t this like old times?” he said. “Do you remember the first time I ever ki⁠—”

Just then the orchestra broke out.

When Doctors Disagree

It is possible that, at about the time at which this story opens, you may have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a haircut. Many people did; for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy countenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clipped judiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather. And he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair-food.

It is possible, too, that, being there, you decided that you might as well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time.

It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the first shock of finding your hands so unexpectedly large and red, you felt disposed to chat with the young lady who looked after that branch of the business. In your genial way you may have permitted a note of gay (but gentlemanly) badinage to creep into your end of the dialogue.

In which case, if you had raised your eyes to the mirror, you would certainly have observed a marked increase of gloom in the demeanour of the young man attending to your apex. He took no official notice of the matter. A quick frown. A tightening of the lips. Nothing more. Jealous as Arthur Welsh was of all who inflicted gay badinage, however gentlemanly, on Maud Peters, he never forgot that he was an artist. Never, even in his blackest moments, had he yielded to the temptation to dig the point of the scissors the merest fraction of an inch into a client’s skull.

But Maud, who saw, would