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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
107
To
Tuppy’s
theory
that
some
insinuating
bird
had
stolen
the
girl’s
heart
from
him
at
Cannes
I
had
given,
as
I
have
indicated,
little
credence,
considering
it
the
mere
unbalanced
apple
sauce
of
a
bereaved
man.
It
was,
of
course,
the
shark,
and
nothing
but
the
shark,
that
had
caused
love’s
young
dream
to
go
temporarily
off
the
boil,
and
I
was
convinced
that
a
word
or
two
with
the
cousin
at
this
juncture
would
set
everything
right.
For,
frankly,
I
thought
it
incredible
that
a
girl
of
her
natural
sweetness
and
tender-heartedness
should
not
have
been
moved
to
her
foundations
by
what
she
had
seen
at
dinner
that
night.
Even
Seppings,
Aunt
Dahlia’s
butler,
a
cold,
unemotional
man,
had
gasped
and
practically
reeled
when
Tuppy
waved
aside
those
nonnettes
de
poulet
Agnès
Sorel,
while
the
footman,
standing
by
with
the
potatoes,
had
stared
like
one
seeing
a
vision.
I
simply
refused
to
consider
the
possibility
of
the
significance
of
the
thing
having
been
lost
on
a
nice
girl
like
Angela.
I
fully
expected
to
find
her
in
the
drawing-room
with
her
heart
bleeding
freely,
all
ripe
for
an
immediate
reconciliation.
In
the
drawing-room,
however,
when
I
entered,
only
Aunt
Dahlia
met
the
eye.
It
seemed
to
me
that
she
gave
me
rather
a
jaundiced
look
as
I
hove
in
sight,
but
this,
having
so
recently
beheld
Tuppy
in
his
agony,
I
attributed
to
the
fact
that
she,
like
him,
had
been
going
light
on
the
menu.
You
can’t
expect
an
empty
aunt
to
beam
like
a
full
aunt.
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