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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
138
It
was
after
the
sombre
silence
induced
by
this
statement
that
Angela
said
the
grass
was
wet
and
she
thought
she
would
go
in.
This,
of
course,
was
entirely
foreign
to
my
policy.
“No,
don’t
do
that.
I
haven’t
had
a
chance
to
talk
to
you
since
you
arrived.”
“I
shall
ruin
my
shoes.”
“Put
your
feet
up
on
my
lap.”
“All
right.
And
you
can
tickle
my
ankles.”
“Quite.”
Matters
were
accordingly
arranged
on
these
lines,
and
for
some
minutes
we
continued
chatting
in
desultory
fashion.
Then
the
conversation
petered
out.
I
made
a
few
observations
in
re
the
scenic
effects,
featuring
the
twilight
hush,
the
peeping
stars,
and
the
soft
glimmer
of
the
waters
of
the
lake,
and
she
said
yes.
Something
rustled
in
the
bushes
in
front
of
us,
and
I
advanced
the
theory
that
it
was
possibly
a
weasel,
and
she
said
it
might
be.
But
it
was
plain
that
the
girl
was
distraite,
and
I
considered
it
best
to
waste
no
more
time.
“Well,
old
thing,”
I
said,
“I’ve
heard
all
about
your
little
dust-up.
So
those
wedding
bells
are
not
going
to
ring
out,
what?”
“No.”
“Definitely
over,
is
it?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
if
you
want
my
opinion,
I
think
that’s
a
bit
of
goose
for
you,
Angela,
old
girl.
I
think
you’re
extremely
well
out
of
it.
It’s
a
mystery
to
me
how
you
stood
this
Glossop
so
long.
Take
him
for
all
in
all,
he
ranks
very
low
down
among
the
wines
and
spirits.
A
washout,
I
should
describe
him
as.
A
frightful
oik,
and
a
mass
of
side
to
boot.
I’d
pity
the
girl
who
was
linked
for
life
to
a
bargee
like
Tuppy
Glossop.”
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