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

wrote to Fireside Chat, and Dr. Cupid said that when jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in at the door, and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and mark your demeanour. So I⁠—Oh!”

Arthur, luckier than Mr. Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk hat.

It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the Flip-Flap⁠—which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for the evening’s emotions⁠—that Arthur, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, produced a small slip of paper.

“What’s that?” Maud asked.

“Read it,” said Arthur. “It’s from Home Moments, in answer to a letter I sent them. And,” he added with heat, “I’d like to have five minutes alone with the chap who wrote it.”

And under the electric light Maud read

Answers to Correspondents

By the Heart Specialist

Arthur W.⁠—Jealousy, Arthur W., is not only the most wicked, but the most foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:⁠—

It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.

You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly. There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a man, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, but persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the only way.

Pots O’Money

Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr. Sheppherd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred that, if you have got to have young men to chant “We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia,” in the Artists’ Ball scene, you might just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a googly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he had been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr. Sheppherd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.

From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr. Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through the air, urged by Mr. Sheppherd’s boot, his transit indicated by a dotted line and a few stars.

Mr. Sheppherd’s manner was inclined to bleakness.

“This is most unfortunate,” he said. “Most unfortunate. I have my daughter’s happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.” He paused. “You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle⁠—? Surely, with his influence⁠—?”

“My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.”

Mr. Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling more than a little aggrieved.

He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr. Sheppherd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was sharp practice on Owen’s part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.

“I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr. Bentley,” he said, “but you will understand that I cannot⁠—It is, of course, out of the question. It would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my daughter again⁠—”

“She’s waiting in the passage outside,” said Owen, simply.

“⁠—after today. Goodbye.”

Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always did, at the sight of her.

“Well?” she said.

He shook his head.

“No good,” he said.

Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.

“Shall I go in and cry?”

“It wouldn’t be of any use.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“He said I mustn’t see you again.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He thinks he did.”

Audrey reflected.

“We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isn’t seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?”

“Yes. But⁠—”

“That’s all right, then. I’ll ring you up every day.”

“I wish I could make some money,” said Owen, thoughtfully. “But I seem to be one of those chaps who can’t. Nothing