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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
116
I
could
put
myself
in
Gussie’s
place.
I
could
envisage
the
scene.
There
he
and
the
Bassett
were,
alone
together
in
the
evening
stillness.
No
doubt,
as
I
had
advised,
he
had
shot
the
works
about
sunsets
and
fairy
princesses,
and
so
forth,
and
then
had
arrived
at
the
point
where
he
had
to
say
that
bit
about
having
something
to
say
to
her.
At
this,
I
take
it,
she
lowered
her
eyes
and
said,
“Oh,
yes?”
He
then,
I
should
imagine,
said
it
was
something
very
important;
to
which
her
response
would,
one
assumes,
have
been
something
on
the
lines
of
“Really?”
or
“Indeed?”
or
possibly
just
the
sharp
intake
of
the
breath.
And
then
their
eyes
met,
just
as
mine
met
the
dentist’s,
and
something
suddenly
seemed
to
catch
him
in
the
pit
of
the
stomach
and
everything
went
black
and
he
heard
his
voice
starting
to
drool
about
newts.
Yes,
I
could
follow
the
psychology.
Nevertheless,
I
found
myself
blaming
Gussie.
On
discovering
that
he
was
stressing
the
newt
note
in
this
manner,
he
ought,
of
course,
to
have
tuned
out,
even
if
it
had
meant
sitting
there
saying
nothing.
No
matter
how
much
of
a
twitter
he
was
in,
he
should
have
had
sense
enough
to
see
that
he
was
throwing
a
spanner
into
the
works.
No
girl,
when
she
has
been
led
to
expect
that
a
man
is
about
to
pour
forth
his
soul
in
a
fervour
of
passion,
likes
to
find
him
suddenly
shelving
the
whole
topic
in
favour
of
an
address
on
aquatic
Salamandridae.
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