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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
112
“Bad,”
I
conceded.
“Quite
bad,
beyond
a
doubt.
Certainly
a
nasty
jar
for
one
and
all.
But
have
no
fear,
Aunt
Dahlia,
I
will
fix
everything.”
I
have
alluded
earlier
to
the
difficulty
of
staggering
when
you’re
sitting
down,
showing
that
it
is
a
feat
of
which
I,
personally,
am
not
capable.
Aunt
Dahlia,
to
my
amazement,
now
did
it
apparently
without
an
effort.
She
was
well
wedged
into
a
deep
arm-chair,
but,
nevertheless,
she
staggered
like
billy-o.
A
sort
of
spasm
of
horror
and
apprehension
contorted
her
face.
“If
you
dare
to
try
any
more
of
your
lunatic
schemes----”
I
saw
that
it
would
be
fruitless
to
try
to
reason
with
her.
Quite
plainly,
she
was
not
in
the
vein.
Contenting
myself,
accordingly,
with
a
gesture
of
loving
sympathy,
I
left
the
room.
Whether
she
did
or
did
not
throw
a
handsomely
bound
volume
of
the
Works
of
Alfred,
Lord
Tennyson,
at
me,
I
am
not
in
a
position
to
say.
I
had
seen
it
lying
on
the
table
beside
her,
and
as
I
closed
the
door
I
remember
receiving
the
impression
that
some
blunt
instrument
had
crashed
against
the
woodwork,
but
I
was
feeling
too
pre-occupied
to
note
and
observe.
I
blame
myself
for
not
having
taken
into
consideration
the
possible
effects
of
a
sudden
abstinence
on
the
part
of
virtually
the
whole
strength
of
the
company
on
one
of
Anatole’s
impulsive
Provençal
temperament.
These
Gauls,
I
should
have
remembered,
can’t
take
it.
Their
tendency
to
fly
off
the
handle
at
the
slightest
provocation
is
well
known.
No
doubt
the
man
had
put
his
whole
soul
into
those
nonnettes
de
poulet,
and
to
see
them
come
homing
back
to
him
must
have
gashed
him
like
a
knife.
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