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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
141
I
had
to
pause
again
here,
partly
in
order
to
take
in
a
spot
of
breath,
and
partly
to
wrestle
with
the
almost
physical
torture
of
saying
these
frightful
things
about
poor
old
Tuppy.
“There
are
some
chaps,”
I
resumed,
forcing
myself
once
more
to
the
nauseous
task,
“who,
in
spite
of
looking
as
if
they
had
slept
in
their
clothes,
can
get
by
quite
nicely
because
they
are
amiable
and
suave.
There
are
others
who,
for
all
that
they
excite
adverse
comment
by
being
fat
and
uncouth,
find
themselves
on
the
credit
side
of
the
ledger
owing
to
their
wit
and
sparkling
humour.
But
this
Glossop,
I
regret
to
say,
falls
into
neither
class.
In
addition
to
looking
like
one
of
those
things
that
come
out
of
hollow
trees,
he
is
universally
admitted
to
be
a
dumb
brick
of
the
first
water.
No
soul.
No
conversation.
In
short,
any
girl
who,
having
been
rash
enough
to
get
engaged
to
him,
has
managed
at
the
eleventh
hour
to
slide
out
is
justly
entitled
to
consider
herself
dashed
lucky.”
I
paused
once
more,
and
cocked
an
eye
at
Angela
to
see
how
the
treatment
was
taking.
All
the
while
I
had
been
speaking,
she
had
sat
gazing
silently
into
the
bushes,
but
it
seemed
to
me
incredible
that
she
should
not
now
turn
on
me
like
a
tigress,
according
to
specifications.
It
beat
me
why
she
hadn’t
done
it
already.
It
seemed
to
me
that
a
mere
tithe
of
what
I
had
said,
if
said
to
a
tigress
about
a
tiger
of
which
she
was
fond,
would
have
made
her--the
tigress,
I
mean--hit
the
ceiling.
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