Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

He Handed The Thing To His Secretary. Rupert Baxter's Eyes Lit Up

With Sudden Enthusiasm. He Gasped.

"Magnificent!" He Cried. "Superb!"

Lord Emsworth Looked At Him Inquiringly.

"It Is A Scarab,  Lord Emsworth; And Unless I Am Mistaken--And I

Think I May Claim To Be Something Of An Expert--A Cheops Of The

Fourth Dynasty. A Wonderful Addition To Your Museum!"

"Is It? By Gad! You Don't Say So,  Baxter!"

"It Is,  Indeed. If It Is Not A Rude Question,  How Much Did You

Give For It,  Lord Emsworth? It Must Have Been The Gem Of

Somebody's Collection. Was There A Sale At Christie's This

Afternoon?"

Lord Emsworth Shook His Head. "I Did Not Get It At Christie's,

For I Recollect That I Had An Important Engagement Which

Prevented My Going To Christie's. To Be Sure; Yes--I Had Promised

To Call On Mr. Peters And Examine His Collection Of--Now I Wonder

What It Was That Mr. Peters Said He Collected!"

"Mr. Peters Is One Of The Best-Known Living Collectors Of

Scarabs."

"Scarabs! You Are Quite Right,  Baxter. Now That I Recall The

Episode,  This Is A Scarab; And Mr. Peters Gave It To Me."

"Gave It To You,  Lord Emsworth?"

"Yes. The Whole Scene Comes Back To Me. Mr. Peters,  After Telling

Me A Great Many Exceedingly Interesting Things About Scarabs,

Which I Regret To Say I Cannot Remember,  Gave Me This. And You

Say It Is Really Valuable,  Baxter?"

"It Is,  From A Collector's Point Of View,  Of Extraordinary

Value."

"Bless My Soul!" Lord Emsworth Beamed. "This Is Extremely

Interesting,  Baxter. One Has Heard So Much Of The Princely

Hospitality Of Americans. How Exceedingly Kind Of Mr. Peters! I

Shall Certainly Treasure It,  Though I Must Confess That From A

Purely Spectacular Standpoint It Leaves Me A Little Cold.

However,  I Must Not Look A Gift Horse In The Mouth--Eh,  Baxter?"

From Afar Came The Silver Booming Of A Gong. Lord Emsworth Rose.

"Time To Dress For Dinner? I Had No Idea It Was So Late. Baxter,

You Will Be Going Past The Museum Door. Will You Be A Good Fellow

And Place This Among The Exhibits? You Will Know What To Do With

It Better Than I. I Always Think Of You As The Curator Of My

Little Collection,  Baxter--Ha-Ha! Mind How You Step When You Are

In The Museum. I Was Painting A Chair There Yesterday And I Think

I Left The Paint Pot On The Floor."

He Cast A Less Amiable Glance At His Studious Son.

"Get Up,  Frederick,  And Go And Dress For Dinner. What Is That

Trash You Are Reading?"

The Honorable Freddie Came Out Of His Book Much As A Sleepwalker

Wakes--With A Sense Of Having Been Violently Assaulted. He Looked

Up With A Kind Of Stunned Plaintiveness.

"Eh,  Gov'nor?"

"Make Haste! Beach Rang The Gong Five Minutes Ago. What Is That

You Are Reading?"

"Oh,  Nothing,  Gov'nor--Just A Book."

"I Wonder You Can Waste Your Time On Such Trash. Make Haste!"

He Turned To The Door,  And The Benevolent Expression Once More

Wandered Athwart His Face.

"Extremely Kind Of Mr. Peters!" He Said. "Really,  There Is

Something Almost Oriental In The Lavish Generosity Of Our

American Cousins."

                        *   *   *

It Had Taken R. Jones Just Six Hours To Discover Joan Valentine's

Address. That It Had Not Taken Him Longer Is A Proof Of His

Energy And Of The Excellence Of His System Of Obtaining

Information; But R. Jones,  When He Considered It Worth His While,

Could Be Extremely Energetic,  And He Was A Past Master At The Art

Of Finding Out Things.

He Poured Himself Out Of His Cab And Rang The Bell Of Number

Seven. A Disheveled Maid Answered The Ring.

"Miss Valentine In?"

"Yes,  Sir."

R. Jones Produced His Card.

"On Important Business,  Tell Her. Half A Minute--I'll Write It."

He Wrote The Words On The Card And Devoted The Brief Period Of

Waiting To A Careful Scrutiny Of His Surroundings. He Looked Out

Into The Court And He Looked As Far As He Could Down The Dingy

Passage; And The Conclusions He Drew From What He Saw Were

Complimentary To Miss Valentine.

"If This Girl Is The Sort Of Girl Who Would Hold Up Freddie's

Letters," He Mused,  "She Wouldn't Be Living In A Place Like This.

If She Were On The Make She Would Have More Money Than She

Evidently Possesses. Therefore,  She Is Not On The Make; And I Am

Prepared To Bet That She Destroyed The Letters As Fast As She Got

Them."

Those Were,  Roughly,  The Thoughts Of R. Jones As He Stood In The

Doorway Of Number Seven; And They Were Important Thoughts

Inasmuch As They Determined His Attitude Toward Joan In The

Approaching Interview. He Perceived That This Matter Must Be

Handled Delicately--That He Must Be Very Much The Gentleman. It

Would Be A Strain,  But He Must Do It.

The Maid Returned And Directed Him To Joan's Room With A Brief

Word And A Sweeping Gesture.

"Eh?" Said R. Jones. "First Floor?"

"Front," Said The Maid.

R. Jones Trudged Laboriously Up The Short Flight Of Stairs. It

Was Very Dark On The Stairs And He Stumbled. Eventually,  However,

Light Came To Him Through An Open Door. Looking In,  He Saw A Girl

Standing At The Table. She Had An Air Of Expectation; So He

Deduced That He Had Reached His Journey's End.

"Miss Valentine?"

"Please Come In."

R. Jones Waddled In.

"Not Much Light On Your Stairs."

"No. Will You Take A Seat?"

"Thanks."

One Glance At The Girl Convinced R. Jones That He Had Been Right.

Circumstances Had Made Him A Rapid Judge Of Character,  For In The

Profession Of Living By One's Wits In A Large City The First

Principle Of Offense And Defense Is To Sum People Up At First

Sight. This Girl Was Not On The Make.

Joan Valentine Was A Tall Girl With Wheat-Gold Hair And Eyes As

Brightly Blue As A November Sky When The Sun Is Shining On A

Frosty World. There Was In Them A Little Of November's Cold

Glitter,  Too,  For Joan Had Been Through Much In The Last Few

Years; And Experience,  Even Though It Does Not Harden,  Erects A

Defensive Barrier Between Its Children And The World.

Her Eyes Were Eyes That Looked Straight And Challenged. They

Could Thaw To The Satin Blue Of The Mediterranean Sea,  Where It

Purrs About The Little Villages Of Southern France; But They Did

Not Thaw For Everybody. She Looked What She Was--A Girl Of

Action; A Girl Whom Life Had Made Both Reckless And Wary--Wary Of

Friendly Advances,  Reckless When There Was A Venture Afoot.

Her Eyes,  As They Met R. Jones' Now,  Were Cold And Challenging.

She,  Too,  Had Learned The Trick Of Swift Diagnosis Of Character,

And What She Saw Of R. Jones In That First Glance Did Not Impress

Her Favorably.

"You Wished To See Me On Business?"

"Yes," Said R. Jones. "Yes. . . . Miss Valentine,  May I Begin By

Begging You To Realize That I Have No Intention Of Insulting

You?"

Joan's Eyebrows Rose. For An Instant She Did Her Visitor The

Injustice Of Suspecting That He Had Been Dining Too Well.

"I Don't Understand."

"Let Me Explain: I Have Come Here," R. Jones Went On,  Getting

More Gentlemanly Every Moment,  "On A Very Distasteful Errand,  To

Oblige A Friend. Will You Bear In Mind That Whatever I Say Is

Said Entirely On His Behalf?"

By This Time Joan Had Abandoned The Idea That This Stout Person

Was A Life-Insurance Tout,  And Was Inclining To The View That He

Was Collecting Funds For A Charity.

"I Came Here At The Request Of The Honorable Frederick

Threepwood."

"I Don't Quite Understand."

"You Never Met Him,  Miss Valentine; But When You Were In The

Chorus At The Piccadilly Theatre,  I Believe,  He Wrote You Some

Very Foolish Letters. Possibly You Have Forgotten Them?"

"I Certainly Have."

"You Have Probably Destroyed Them---Eh?"

"Certainly! I Never Keep Letters. Why Do You Ask?"

"Well,  You See,  Miss Valentine,  The Honorable Frederick

Threepwood Is About To Be Married; And He Thought That Possibly,

On The Whole,  It Would Be Better That The Letters--And

Poetry--Which He Wrote You Were Nonexistent."

Not All R. Jones' Gentlemanliness--And During This Speech He

Diffused It Like A Powerful Scent In Waves About Him--Could Hide

The Unpleasant Meaning Of The Words.

"He Was Afraid I Might Try To Blackmail Him?" Said Joan,  With

Formidable Calm.

R. Jones Raised And Waved A Fat Hand Deprecatingly.

"My Dear Miss Valentine!"

Joan Rose And R. Jones Followed Her Example. The Interview Was

Plainly At An End.

"Please Tell Mr. Threepwood To Make His Mind Quite Easy. He Is In

No Danger."

"Exactly--Exactly; Precisely! I Assured Threepwood That My Visit

Here Would Be A Mere Formality. I Was Quite Sure You Had No

Intention Whatever Of Worrying Him. I May Tell Him Definitely,

Then,  That You Have Destroyed The Letters?"

"Yes. Good-Evening."

"Good-Evening,  Miss Valentine."

The Closing Of The Door Behind Him Left Him In Total Darkness,

But He Hardly Liked To Return And Ask Joan To Reopen It In Order

To Light Him On His Way. He Was Glad To