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

Come. It Was The Spirit In Which She Herself Had Gone Into The

Affair And She Was Pleased To Find That It Animated Ashe

Also--Though,  To Be Sure,  It Had Its Drawbacks. It Made His

Rivalry The More Dangerous. This Reflection Injected A Touch Of

The Old Hostility Into Her Manner.

"I Wonder Whether You Will Continue To Feel So Brave."

"What Do You Mean?"

Joan Perceived That She Was In Danger Of Going Too Far. She Had

No Wish To Unmask Ashe At The Expense Of Revealing Her Own

Secret. She Must Resist The Temptation To Hint That She Had

Discovered His.

"I Meant," She Said Quickly,  "That From What I Have Seen Of Him

Mr. Peters Seems Likely To Be A Rather Trying Man To Work For."

Ashe's Face Cleared. For A Moment He Had Almost Suspected That

She Had Guessed His Errand.

"Yes. I Imagine He Will Be. He Is What You Might Call

Quick-Tempered. He Has Dyspepsia,  You Know."

"I Know."

"What He Wants Is Plenty Of Fresh Air And No Cigars,  And A

Regular Course Of Those Larsen Exercises That Amused You So

Much."

Joan Laughed.

"Are You Going To Try And Persuade Mr. Peters To Twist Himself

About Like That? Do Let Me See It If You Do."

"I Wish I Could."

"Do Suggest It To Him."

"Don't You Think He Would Resent It From A Valet?"

"I Keep Forgetting That You Are A Valet. You Look So Unlike One."

"Old Peters Didn't Think So. He Rather Complimented Me On My

Appearance. He Said I Was Ordinary-Looking."

"I Shouldn't Have Called You That. You Look So Very Strong And

Fit."

"Surely There Are Muscular Valets?"

"Well,  Yes; I Suppose There Are."

Ashe Looked At Her. He Was Thinking That Never In His Life Had He

Seen A Girl So Amazingly Pretty. What It Was That She Had Done To

Herself Was Beyond Him; But Something,  Some Trick Of Dress,  Had

Given Her A Touch Of The Demure That Made Her Irresistible. She

Was Dressed In Sober Black,  The Ideal Background For Her

Fairness.

"While On The Subject," He Said,  "I Suppose You Know You Don't

Look In The Least Like A Lady's Maid? You Look Like A Disguised

Princess."

She Laughed.

"That's Very Nice Of You,  Mr. Marson,  But You're Quite Wrong.

Anyone Could Tell I Was A Lady's Maid,  A Mile Away. You Aren't

Criticizing The Dress,  Surely?"

"The Dress Is All Right. It's The General Effect. I Don't Think

Your Expression Is Right. It's--It's--There's Too Much Attack In

It. You Aren't Meek Enough."

Joan's Eyes Opened Wide.

"Meek! Have You Ever Seen An English Lady's Maid,  Mr. Marson?"

"Why,  No; Now That I Come To Think Of It,  I Don't Believe I

Have."

"Well,  Let Me Tell You That Meekness Is Her Last Quality. Why

Should She Be Meek? Doesn't She Go In After The Groom Of The

Chambers?"

"Go In? Go In Where?"

"In To Dinner." She Smiled At The Sight Of His Bewildered Face.

"I'm Afraid You Don't Know Much About The Etiquette Of The New

World You Have Entered So Rashly. Didn't You Know That The Rules

Of Precedence Among The Servants Of A Big House In England Are

More Rigid And Complicated Than In English Society?"

"You're Joking!"

"I'm Not Joking. You Try Going In To Dinner Out Of Your Proper

Place When We Get To Blandings And See What Happens. A Public

Rebuke From The Butler Is The Least You Could Expect."

A Bead Of Perspiration Appeared On Ashe's Forehead.

"Heavens!" He Whispered. "If A Butler Publicly Rebuked Me I Think

I Should Commit Suicide. I Couldn't Survive It."

He Stared,  With Fallen Jaw,  Into The Abyss Of Horror Into Which

He Had Leaped So Light-Heartedly. The Servant Problem,  On This

Large Scale,  Had Been Nonexistent For Him Until Now. In The Days

Of His Youth,  At Mayling,  Massachusetts,  His Needs Had Been

Ministered To By A Muscular Swede. Later,  At Oxford,  There Had

Been His "Scout" And His Bed Maker,  Harmless Persons Both,

Provided You Locked Up Your Whisky. And In London,  His Last

Phase,  A Succession Of Servitors Of The Type Of The Disheveled

Maid At Number Seven Had Tended Him.

That,  Dotted About The Land Of His Adoption,  There Were Houses In

Which Larger Staffs Of Domestics Were Maintained,  He Had Been

Vaguely Aware. Indeed,  In "Gridley Quayle,  Investigator; The

Adventure Of The Missing Marquis"--Number Four Of The Series--He

Had Drawn A Picture Of The Home Life Of A Duke,  In Which A Butler

And Two Powdered Footmen Had Played Their Parts; But He Had Had

No Idea That Rigid And Complicated Rules Of Etiquette Swayed The

Private Lives Of These Individuals. If He Had Given The Matter A

Thought He Had Supposed That When The Dinner Hour Arrived The

Butler And The Two Footmen Would Troop Into The Kitchen And

Squash In At The Table Wherever They Found Room.

"Tell Me," He Said. "Tell Me All You Know. I Feel As Though I Had

Escaped A Frightful Disaster."

"You Probably Have. I Don't Suppose There Is Anything So Terrible

As A Snub From A Butler."

"If There Is I Can't Think Of It. When I Was At Oxford I Used To

Go And Stay With A Friend Of Mine Who Had A Butler That Looked

Like A Roman Emperor In Swallowtails. He Terrified Me. I Used To

Grovel To The Man. Please Give Me All The Pointers You Can."

"Well,  As Mr. Peters' Valet,  I Suppose You Will Be Rather A Big

Man."

"I Shan't Feel It."

"However Large The House Party Is,  Mr. Peters Is Sure To Be The

Principal Guest; So Your Standing Will Be Correspondingly

Magnificent. You Come After The Butler,  The Housekeeper,  The

Groom Of The Chambers,  Lord Emsworth's Valet,  Lady Ann

Warblington's Lady's Maid--"

"Who Is She?"

"Lady Ann? Lord Emsworth's Sister. She Has Lived With Him Since

His Wife Died. What Was I Saying? Oh,  Yes! After Them Come The

Honorable Frederick Threepwood's Valet And Myself--And Then You."

"I'm Not So High Up Then,  After All?"

"Yes,  You Are. There's A Whole Crowd Who Come After You. It All

Depends On How Many Other Guests There Are Besides Mr. Peters."

"I Suppose I Charge In At The Head Of A Drove Of Housemaids And

Scullery Maids?"

"My Dear Mr. Marson,  If A Housemaid Or A Scullery Maid Tried To

Get Into The Steward's Room And Have Her Meals With Us,  She Would

Be--"

"Rebuked By The Butler?"

"Lynched,  I Should Think. Kitchen Maids And Scullery Maids Eat In

The Kitchen. Chauffeurs,  Footmen,  Under-Butler,  Pantry Boys,  Hall

Boy,  Odd Man And Steward's-Room Footman Take Their Meals In The

Servants' Hall,  Waited On By The Hall Boy. The Stillroom Maids

Have Breakfast And Tea In The Stillroom,  And Dinner And Supper In

The Hall. The Housemaids And Nursery Maids Have Breakfast And Tea

In The Housemaid's Sitting-Room,  And Dinner And Supper In The

Hall. The Head Housemaid Ranks Next To The Head Stillroom Maid.

The Laundry Maids Have A Place Of Their Own Near The Laundry,  And

The Head Laundry Maid Ranks Above The Head Housemaid. The Chef

Has His Meals In A Room Of His Own Near The Kitchen. Is There

Anything Else I Can Tell You,  Mr. Marson?"

Ashe Was Staring At Her With Vacant Eyes. He Shook His Head

Dumbly.

"We Stop At Swindon In Half An Hour," Said Joan Softly. "Don't

You Think You Would Be Wise To Get Out There And Go Straight Back

To London,  Mr. Marson? Think Of All You Would Avoid!"

Ashe Found Speech.

"It's A Nightmare!"

"You Would Be Far Happier In Arundell Street. Why Don't You Get

Out At Swindon And Go Back?"

Ashe Shook His Head.

"I Can't. There's--There's A Reason."

Joan Picked Up Her Magazine Again. Hostility Had Come Out From

The Corner Into Which She Had Tucked It Away And Was Once More

Filling Her Mind. She Knew It Was Illogical,  But She Could Not

Help It. For A Moment,  During Her Revelations Of Servants'

Etiquette,  She Had Allowed Herself To Hope That She Had

Frightened Her Rival Out Of The Field,  And The Disappointment

Made Her Feel Irritable. She Buried Herself In A Short Story,  And

Countered Ashe's Attempts At Renewing The Conversation With Cold

Monosyllables,  Until He Ceased His Efforts And Fell Into A Moody

Silence.

He Was Feeling Hurt And Angry. Her Sudden Coldness,  Following On

The Friendliness With Which She Had Talked So Long,  Puzzled And

Infuriated Him. He Felt As Though He Had Been Snubbed,  And For No

Reason.

He Resented The Defensive Magazine,  Though He Had Bought It For

Her Himself. He Resented Her Attitude Of Having Ceased To

Recognize His Existence. A Sadness,  A Filmy Melancholy,  Crept

Over Him. He Brooded On The Unutterable Silliness Of Humanity,

Especially The Female Portion Of It,  In Erecting Artificial

Barriers To Friendship. It Was So Unreasonable.

At Their First Meeting,  When She Might Have Been Excused For

Showing Defensiveness,  She Had Treated Him With Unaffected Ease.

When That Meeting Had Ended There Was A Tacit Understanding

Between Them That All The Preliminary Awkwardnesses Of The First

Stages Of Acquaintanceship Were To Be Considered As Having Been

Passed; And That When They Met Again,  If They Ever Did,  It Would

Be As Friends. And Here She Was,  Luring Him On With Apparent

Friendliness,  And Then Withdrawing Into Herself As Though He Had

Presumed.

A Rebellious Spirit Took Possession Of Him. He Didn't Care! Let

Her Be Cold And Distant. He Would Show Her That She Had No

Monopoly Of Those Qualities. He Would Not Speak To Her Until She

Spoke To Him; And When She Spoke To Him He Would Freeze Her With

His Courteous But Bleakly Aloof Indifference.

The Train Rattled On. Joan Read Her Magazine. Silence Reigned In

The Second-Class Compartment. Swindon Was Reached And Passed.

Darkness Fell On The Land.