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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
122
I
nodded.
I
knew
how
pies
do.
“I
got
to
the
larder.
I
fished
it
out.
I
set
it
on
the
table.
I
found
knife
and
fork.
I
collected
salt,
mustard,
and
pepper.
There
were
some
cold
potatoes.
I
added
those.
And
I
was
about
to
pitch
in
when
I
heard
a
sound
behind
me,
and
there
was
your
aunt
at
the
door.
In
a
blue-and-yellow
dressing
gown.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Most.”
“I
suppose
you
didn’t
know
where
to
look.”
“I
looked
at
Angela.”
“She
came
in
with
my
aunt?”
“No.
With
your
uncle,
a
minute
or
two
later.
He
was
wearing
mauve
pyjamas
and
carried
a
pistol.
Have
you
ever
seen
your
uncle
in
pyjamas
and
a
pistol?”
“Never.”
“You
haven’t
missed
much.”
“Tell
me,
Tuppy,”
I
asked,
for
I
was
anxious
to
ascertain
this,
“about
Angela.
Was
there
any
momentary
softening
in
her
gaze
as
she
fixed
it
on
you?”
“She
didn’t
fix
it
on
me.
She
fixed
it
on
the
pie.”
“Did
she
say
anything?”
“Not
right
away.
Your
uncle
was
the
first
to
speak.
He
said
to
your
aunt,
‘God
bless
my
soul,
Dahlia,
what
are
you
doing
here?’
To
which
she
replied,
‘Well,
if
it
comes
to
that,
my
merry
somnambulist,
what
are
you?’
Your
uncle
then
said
that
he
thought
there
must
be
burglars
in
the
house,
as
he
had
heard
noises.”
I
nodded
again.
I
could
follow
the
trend.
Ever
since
the
scullery
window
was
found
open
the
year
Shining
Light
was
disqualified
in
the
Cesarewitch
for
boring,
Uncle
Tom
has
had
a
marked
complex
about
burglars.
I
can
still
recall
my
emotions
when,
paying
my
first
visit
after
he
had
bars
put
on
all
the
windows
and
attempting
to
thrust
the
head
out
in
order
to
get
a
sniff
of
country
air,
I
nearly
fractured
my
skull
on
a
sort
of
iron
grille,
as
worn
by
the
tougher
kinds
of
mediaeval
prison.
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