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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
110
“Will
he?
Do
you
know
where
he
is
now?”
“I
haven’t
seen
him.”
“He
is
in
the
study
with
his
face
buried
in
his
hands,
muttering
about
civilization
and
melting
pots.”
“Eh?
Why?”
“Because
it
has
just
been
my
painful
duty
to
inform
him
that
Anatole
has
given
notice.”
I
own
that
I
reeled.
“What?”
“Given
notice.
As
the
result
of
that
drivelling
scheme
of
yours.
What
did
you
expect
a
sensitive,
temperamental
French
cook
to
do,
if
you
went
about
urging
everybody
to
refuse
all
food?
I
hear
that
when
the
first
two
courses
came
back
to
the
kitchen
practically
untouched,
his
feelings
were
so
hurt
that
he
cried
like
a
child.
And
when
the
rest
of
the
dinner
followed,
he
came
to
the
conclusion
that
the
whole
thing
was
a
studied
and
calculated
insult,
and
decided
to
hand
in
his
portfolio.”
“Golly!”
“You
may
well
say
‘Golly!’
Anatole,
God’s
gift
to
the
gastric
juices,
gone
like
the
dew
off
the
petal
of
a
rose,
all
through
your
idiocy.
Perhaps
you
understand
now
why
I
want
you
to
go
and
jump
in
that
pond.
I
might
have
known
that
some
hideous
disaster
would
strike
this
house
like
a
thunderbolt
if
once
you
wriggled
your
way
into
it
and
started
trying
to
be
clever.”
Harsh
words,
of
course,
as
from
aunt
to
nephew,
but
I
bore
her
no
resentment.
No
doubt,
if
you
looked
at
it
from
a
certain
angle,
Bertram
might
be
considered
to
have
made
something
of
a
floater.
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