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

I think, M. P., that you should endeavour to discover the true state of your fiancé’s feelings. I do not, of course, advocate anything in the shape of unwomanly behaviour, of which I am sure, my dear young lady, you are incapable; but I think that you should certainly try to pique your fiancé, to test him. At your next ball, for instance, refuse him a certain number of dances, on the plea that your programme is full. At garden-parties, at-homes, and so on, exhibit pleasure in the society and conversation of other gentlemen, and mark his demeanour as you do so. These little tests should serve either to relieve your apprehensions, provided they are groundless, or to show you the truth. And, after all, if it is the truth, it must be faced, must it not, M. P.?”

Before the end of the day Maud knew the whole passage by heart. The more her mind dwelt on it, the more clearly did it seem to express what she had felt but could not put into words. The point about jousting struck her as particularly well taken. She had looked up “joust” in the dictionary, and it seemed to her that in these few words was contained the kernel of her trouble. In the old days, if any man had attempted to rival him in her affections (outside business hours), Arthur would undoubtedly have jousted⁠—and jousted with the vigour of one who means to make his presence felt. Now, in similar circumstances, he would probably step aside politely, as who should say, “After you, my dear Alphonse.”

There was no time to lose. An hour after her first perusal of Dr. Cupid’s advice, Maud had begun to act upon it. By the time the first lull in the morning’s work had come, and there was a chance for private conversation, she had invented an imaginary young man, a shadowy Lothario, who, being introduced into her home on the previous Sunday by her brother Horace, had carried on in a way you wouldn’t believe, paying all manner of compliments.

“He said I had such white hands,” said Maud.

Arthur nodded, stropping a razor the while. He appeared to be bearing the revelations with complete fortitude. Yet, only a few weeks before, a customer’s comment on this same whiteness had stirred him to his depths.

“And this morning⁠—what do you think? Why, he meets me as bold as you please, and gives me a cake of toilet soap. Like his impudence!”

She paused, hopefully.

“Always useful, soap,” said Arthur, politely sententious.

“Lovely it was,” went on Maud, dully conscious of failure, but stippling in like an artist the little touches which give atmosphere and verisimilitude to a story. “All scented. Horace will tease me about it, I can tell you.”

She paused. Surely he must⁠—Why, a sea-anemone would be torn with jealousy at such a tale.

Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it. Thought it very kind of the young fellow. Didn’t blame him for being struck by the whiteness of her hands. Touched on the history of soap, which he happened to have been reading up in the encyclopedia at the free library. And behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that Maud stayed awake half the night, crying.

If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours there would have been no need for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on the following day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was not imaginary⁠—a Lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry with that air of having bought most of the neighbouring property which belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the Stock Exchange, and American professional pugilists.

Mr. “Skipper” Shute belonged to the last-named of the three classes. He had arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holding a conference at eight-stone four with one Joseph Edwardes, to settle a question of superiority at that weight which had been vexing the sporting public of two countries for over a year. Having successfully out-argued Mr. Edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in the clinches, he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall tour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of these things he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, and with Mr. Skipper Shute in particular. And when Mr. Shute was pleased with himself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest.

He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and, having cast an experienced eye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed, “Go the limit, kid.”

At any other time Maud might have resented being addressed as “kid” by a customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slight thickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr. Shute bore no outward signs of his profession. And being, to use his own phrase, a “swell dresser,” he was really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maud needed. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancient fire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr. Shute that it must be fanned.

She smiled upon Mr. Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if it were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully did she toil that she was still busy when Arthur, taking off his apron and putting on his hat, went out for his twenty-minutes’ lunch, leaving them alone together.

The door had scarcely shut when Mr. Shute bent forward.

“Say!”

He sank his voice to a winning whisper.

“You look good to muh,” he said, gallantly.

“The idea!” said Maud, tossing her head.

“On the level,” Mr. Shute assured her.

Maud laid down her orange-sticks.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “There⁠—I’ve finished.”

“I’ve not,” said Mr. Shute. “Not by a mile. Say!”

“Well?”

“What do you do with your evenings?”

“I go home.”

“Sure. But when you don’t? It’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Don’t you ever whoop it up?”

“Whoop it up?”

“The mad whirl,” explained Mr. Shute. “Ice-cream