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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
10
And
what
made
it
all
so
painful
and
distressing
was
that
the
more
we
met,
the
less
did
I
seem
able
to
find
to
say
to
her.
You
know
how
it
is
with
some
girls.
They
seem
to
take
the
stuffing
right
out
of
you.
I
mean
to
say,
there
is
something
about
their
personality
that
paralyses
the
vocal
cords
and
reduces
the
contents
of
the
brain
to
cauliflower.
It
was
like
that
with
this
Bassett
and
me;
so
much
so
that
I
have
known
occasions
when
for
minutes
at
a
stretch
Bertram
Wooster
might
have
been
observed
fumbling
with
the
tie,
shuffling
the
feet,
and
behaving
in
all
other
respects
in
her
presence
like
the
complete
dumb
brick.
When,
therefore,
she
took
her
departure
some
two
weeks
before
we
did,
you
may
readily
imagine
that,
in
Bertram’s
opinion,
it
was
not
a
day
too
soon.
It
was
not
her
beauty,
mark
you,
that
thus
numbed
me.
She
was
a
pretty
enough
girl
in
a
droopy,
blonde,
saucer-eyed
way,
but
not
the
sort
of
breath-taker
that
takes
the
breath.
No,
what
caused
this
disintegration
in
a
usually
fairly
fluent
prattler
with
the
sex
was
her
whole
mental
attitude.
I
don’t
want
to
wrong
anybody,
so
I
won’t
go
so
far
as
to
say
that
she
actually
wrote
poetry,
but
her
conversation,
to
my
mind,
was
of
a
nature
calculated
to
excite
the
liveliest
suspicions.
Well,
I
mean
to
say,
when
a
girl
suddenly
asks
you
out
of
a
blue
sky
if
you
don’t
sometimes
feel
that
the
stars
are
God’s
daisy-chain,
you
begin
to
think
a
bit.
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