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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
12
He
now
rose,
holding
a
white
object.
And
at
the
sight
of
it,
I
realized
that
another
of
our
domestic
crises
had
arrived,
another
of
those
unfortunate
clashes
of
will
between
two
strong
men,
and
that
Bertram,
unless
he
remembered
his
fighting
ancestors
and
stood
up
for
his
rights,
was
about
to
be
put
upon.
I
don’t
know
if
you
were
at
Cannes
this
summer.
If
you
were,
you
will
recall
that
anybody
with
any
pretensions
to
being
the
life
and
soul
of
the
party
was
accustomed
to
attend
binges
at
the
Casino
in
the
ordinary
evening-wear
trouserings
topped
to
the
north
by
a
white
mess-jacket
with
brass
buttons.
And
ever
since
I
had
stepped
aboard
the
Blue
Train
at
Cannes
station,
I
had
been
wondering
on
and
off
how
mine
would
go
with
Jeeves.
In
the
matter
of
evening
costume,
you
see,
Jeeves
is
hidebound
and
reactionary.
I
had
had
trouble
with
him
before
about
soft-bosomed
shirts.
And
while
these
mess-jackets
had,
as
I
say,
been
all
the
rage--tout
ce
qu’il
y
a
de
chic--on
the
Côte
d’Azur,
I
had
never
concealed
it
from
myself,
even
when
treading
the
measure
at
the
Palm
Beach
Casino
in
the
one
I
had
hastened
to
buy,
that
there
might
be
something
of
an
upheaval
about
it
on
my
return.
I
prepared
to
be
firm.
“Yes,
Jeeves?”
I
said.
And
though
my
voice
was
suave,
a
close
observer
in
a
position
to
watch
my
eyes
would
have
noticed
a
steely
glint.
Nobody
has
a
greater
respect
for
Jeeves’s
intellect
than
I
have,
but
this
disposition
of
his
to
dictate
to
the
hand
that
fed
him
had
got,
I
felt,
to
be
checked.
This
mess-jacket
was
very
near
to
my
heart,
and
I
jolly
well
intended
to
fight
for
it
with
all
the
vim
of
grand
old
Sieur
de
Wooster
at
the
Battle
of
Agincourt.
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