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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
105
“Bertie.”
“Hullo?”
“Shall
I
tell
you
something?”
“Certainly,
old
bird,”
I
said
cordially.
“I
was
just
beginning
to
feel
that
the
scene
could
do
with
a
bit
more
dialogue.”
“This
business
of
Angela
and
me.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve
been
putting
in
a
lot
of
solid
thinking
about
it.”
“Oh,
yes?”
“I
have
analysed
the
situation
pitilessly,
and
one
thing
stands
out
as
clear
as
dammit.
There
has
been
dirty
work
afoot.”
“I
don’t
get
you.”
“All
right.
Let
me
review
the
facts.
Up
to
the
time
she
went
to
Cannes
Angela
loved
me.
She
was
all
over
me.
I
was
the
blue-eyed
boy
in
every
sense
of
the
term.
You’ll
admit
that?”
“Indisputably.”
“And
directly
she
came
back
we
had
this
bust-up.”
“Quite.”
“About
nothing.”
“Oh,
dash
it,
old
man,
nothing?
You
were
a
bit
tactless,
what,
about
her
shark.”
“I
was
frank
and
candid
about
her
shark.
And
that’s
my
point.
Do
you
seriously
believe
that
a
trifling
disagreement
about
sharks
would
make
a
girl
hand
a
man
his
hat,
if
her
heart
were
really
his?”
“Certainly.”
It
beats
me
why
he
couldn’t
see
it.
But
then
poor
old
Tuppy
has
never
been
very
hot
on
the
finer
shades.
He’s
one
of
those
large,
tough,
football-playing
blokes
who
lack
the
more
delicate
sensibilities,
as
I’ve
heard
Jeeves
call
them.
Excellent
at
blocking
a
punt
or
walking
across
an
opponent’s
face
in
cleated
boots,
but
not
so
good
when
it
comes
to
understanding
the
highly-strung
female
temperament.
It
simply
wouldn’t
occur
to
him
that
a
girl
might
be
prepared
to
give
up
her
life’s
happiness
rather
than
waive
her
shark.
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