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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
131
“No.
Because
he
didn’t
get
to
the
ball.
And
that
strengthens
my
argument.
A
man
who
can
set
out
in
a
cab
for
a
fancy-dress
ball
and
not
get
there
is
manifestly
a
poop
of
no
common
order.
I
don’t
think
I
have
ever
known
anybody
else
who
was
such
a
dashed
silly
ass
that
he
couldn’t
even
get
to
a
fancy-dress
ball.
Have
you,
Jeeves?”
“No,
sir.”
“But
don’t
forget
this,
because
it
is
the
point
I
wish,
above
all,
to
make:
Even
if
Gussie
had
got
to
that
ball;
even
if
those
scarlet
tights,
taken
in
conjunction
with
his
horn-rimmed
spectacles,
hadn’t
given
the
girl
a
fit
of
some
kind;
even
if
she
had
rallied
from
the
shock
and
he
had
been
able
to
dance
and
generally
hobnob
with
her;
even
then
your
efforts
would
have
been
fruitless,
because,
Mephistopheles
costume
or
no
Mephistopheles
costume,
Augustus
Fink-Nottle
would
never
have
been
able
to
summon
up
the
courage
to
ask
her
to
be
his.
All
that
would
have
resulted
would
have
been
that
she
would
have
got
that
lecture
on
newts
a
few
days
earlier.
And
why,
Jeeves?
Shall
I
tell
you
why?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Because
he
would
have
been
attempting
the
hopeless
task
of
trying
to
do
the
thing
on
orange
juice.”
“Sir?”
“Gussie
is
an
orange-juice
addict.
He
drinks
nothing
else.”
“I
was
not
aware
of
that,
sir.”
“I
have
it
from
his
own
lips.
Whether
from
some
hereditary
taint,
or
because
he
promised
his
mother
he
wouldn’t,
or
simply
because
he
doesn’t
like
the
taste
of
the
stuff,
Gussie
Fink-Nottle
has
never
in
the
whole
course
of
his
career
pushed
so
much
as
the
simplest
gin
and
tonic
over
the
larynx.
And
he
expects--this
poop
expects,
Jeeves--this
wabbling,
shrinking,
diffident
rabbit
in
human
shape
expects
under
these
conditions
to
propose
to
the
girl
he
loves.
One
hardly
knows
whether
to
smile
or
weep,
what?”
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