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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
11
As
regards
the
fusing
of
her
soul
and
mine,
therefore,
there
was
nothing
doing.
But
with
Gussie,
the
posish
was
entirely
different.
The
thing
that
had
stymied
me--viz.
that
this
girl
was
obviously
all
loaded
down
with
ideals
and
sentiment
and
what
not--was
quite
in
order
as
far
as
he
was
concerned.
Gussie
had
always
been
one
of
those
dreamy,
soulful
birds--you
can’t
shut
yourself
up
in
the
country
and
live
only
for
newts,
if
you’re
not--and
I
could
see
no
reason
why,
if
he
could
somehow
be
induced
to
get
the
low,
burning
words
off
his
chest,
he
and
the
Bassett
shouldn’t
hit
it
off
like
ham
and
eggs.
“She’s
just
the
type
for
him,”
I
said.
“I
am
most
gratified
to
hear
it,
sir.”
“And
he’s
just
the
type
for
her.
In
fine,
a
good
thing
and
one
to
be
pushed
along
with
the
utmost
energy.
Strain
every
nerve,
Jeeves.”
“Very
good,
sir,”
replied
the
honest
fellow.
“I
will
attend
to
the
matter
at
once.”
Now
up
to
this
point,
as
you
will
doubtless
agree,
what
you
might
call
a
perfect
harmony
had
prevailed.
Friendly
gossip
between
employer
and
employed,
and
everything
as
sweet
as
a
nut.
But
at
this
juncture,
I
regret
to
say,
there
was
an
unpleasant
switch.
The
atmosphere
suddenly
changed,
the
storm
clouds
began
to
gather,
and
before
we
knew
where
we
were,
the
jarring
note
had
come
bounding
on
the
scene.
I
have
known
this
to
happen
before
in
the
Wooster
home.
The
first
intimation
I
had
that
things
were
about
to
hot
up
was
a
pained
and
disapproving
cough
from
the
neighbourhood
of
the
carpet.
For,
during
the
above
exchanges,
I
should
explain,
while
I,
having
dried
the
frame,
had
been
dressing
in
a
leisurely
manner,
donning
here
a
sock,
there
a
shoe,
and
gradually
climbing
into
the
vest,
the
shirt,
the
tie,
and
the
knee-length,
Jeeves
had
been
down
on
the
lower
level,
unpacking
my
effects.
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