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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
108
“Oh,
it’s
you,
is
it?”
she
said.
Well,
it
was,
of
course.
“Where’s
Angela?”
I
asked.
“Gone
to
bed.”
“Already?”
“She
said
she
had
a
headache.”
“H’m.”
I
wasn’t
so
sure
that
I
liked
the
sound
of
that
so
much.
A
girl
who
has
observed
the
sundered
lover
sensationally
off
his
feed
does
not
go
to
bed
with
headaches
if
love
has
been
reborn
in
her
heart.
She
sticks
around
and
gives
him
the
swift,
remorseful
glance
from
beneath
the
drooping
eyelashes
and
generally
endeavours
to
convey
to
him
that,
if
he
wants
to
get
together
across
a
round
table
and
try
to
find
a
formula,
she
is
all
for
it
too.
Yes,
I
am
bound
to
say
I
found
that
going-to-bed
stuff
a
bit
disquieting.
“Gone
to
bed,
eh?”
I
murmured
musingly.
“What
did
you
want
her
for?”
“I
thought
she
might
like
a
stroll
and
a
chat.”
“Are
you
going
for
a
stroll?”
said
Aunt
Dahlia,
with
a
sudden
show
of
interest.
“Where?”
“Oh,
hither
and
thither.”
“Then
I
wonder
if
you
would
mind
doing
something
for
me.”
“Give
it
a
name.”
“It
won’t
take
you
long.
You
know
that
path
that
runs
past
the
greenhouses
into
the
kitchen
garden.
If
you
go
along
it,
you
come
to
a
pond.”
“That’s
right.”
“Well,
will
you
get
a
good,
stout
piece
of
rope
or
cord
and
go
down
that
path
till
you
come
to
the
pond----”
“To
the
pond.
Right.”
“--and
look
about
you
till
you
find
a
nice,
heavy
stone.
Or
a
fairly
large
brick
would
do.”
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