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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
109
“I
see,”
I
said,
though
I
didn’t,
being
still
fogged.
“Stone
or
brick.
Yes.
And
then?”
“Then,”
said
the
relative,
“I
want
you,
like
a
good
boy,
to
fasten
the
rope
to
the
brick
and
tie
it
around
your
damned
neck
and
jump
into
the
pond
and
drown
yourself.
In
a
few
days
I
will
send
and
have
you
fished
up
and
buried
because
I
shall
need
to
dance
on
your
grave.”
I
was
more
fogged
than
ever.
And
not
only
fogged--wounded
and
resentful.
I
remember
reading
a
book
where
a
girl
“suddenly
fled
from
the
room,
afraid
to
stay
for
fear
dreadful
things
would
come
tumbling
from
her
lips;
determined
that
she
would
not
remain
another
day
in
this
house
to
be
insulted
and
misunderstood.”
I
felt
much
about
the
same.
Then
I
reminded
myself
that
one
has
got
to
make
allowances
for
a
woman
with
only
about
half
a
spoonful
of
soup
inside
her,
and
I
checked
the
red-hot
crack
that
rose
to
the
lips.
“What,”
I
said
gently,
“is
this
all
about?
You
seem
pipped
with
Bertram.”
“Pipped!”
“Noticeably
pipped.
Why
this
ill-concealed
animus?”
A
sudden
flame
shot
from
her
eyes,
singeing
my
hair.
“Who
was
the
ass,
who
was
the
chump,
who
was
the
dithering
idiot
who
talked
me,
against
my
better
judgment,
into
going
without
my
dinner?
I
might
have
guessed----”
I
saw
that
I
had
divined
correctly
the
cause
of
her
strange
mood.
“It’s
all
right,
Aunt
Dahlia.
I
know
just
how
you’re
feeling.
A
bit
on
the
hollow
side,
what?
But
the
agony
will
pass.
If
I
were
you,
I’d
sneak
down
and
raid
the
larder
after
the
household
have
gone
to
bed.
I
am
told
there’s
a
pretty
good
steak-and-kidney
pie
there
which
will
repay
inspection.
Have
faith,
Aunt
Dahlia,”
I
urged.
“Pretty
soon
Uncle
Tom
will
be
along,
full
of
sympathy
and
anxious
inquiries.”
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