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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
142
And
the
next
moment
you
could
have
knocked
me
down
with
a
toothpick.
“Yes,”
she
said,
nodding
thoughtfully,
“you’re
quite
right.”
“Eh?”
“That’s
exactly
what
I’ve
been
thinking
myself.”
“What!”
“‘Dumb
brick.’
It
just
describes
him.
One
of
the
six
silliest
asses
in
England,
I
should
think
he
must
be.”
I
did
not
speak.
I
was
endeavouring
to
adjust
the
faculties,
which
were
in
urgent
need
of
a
bit
of
first-aid
treatment.
I
mean
to
say,
all
this
had
come
as
a
complete
surprise.
In
formulating
the
well-laid
plan
which
I
had
just
been
putting
into
effect,
the
one
contingency
I
had
not
budgeted
for
was
that
she
might
adhere
to
the
sentiments
which
I
expressed.
I
had
braced
myself
for
a
gush
of
stormy
emotion.
I
was
expecting
the
tearful
ticking
off,
the
girlish
recriminations
and
all
the
rest
of
the
bag
of
tricks
along
those
lines.
But
this
cordial
agreement
with
my
remarks
I
had
not
foreseen,
and
it
gave
me
what
you
might
call
pause
for
thought.
She
proceeded
to
develop
her
theme,
speaking
in
ringing,
enthusiastic
tones,
as
if
she
loved
the
topic.
Jeeves
could
tell
you
the
word
I
want.
I
think
it’s
“ecstatic”,
unless
that’s
the
sort
of
rash
you
get
on
your
face
and
have
to
use
ointment
for.
But
if
that
is
the
right
word,
then
that’s
what
her
manner
was
as
she
ventilated
the
subject
of
poor
old
Tuppy.
If
you
had
been
able
to
go
simply
by
the
sound
of
her
voice,
she
might
have
been
a
court
poet
cutting
loose
about
an
Oriental
monarch,
or
Gussie
Fink-Nottle
describing
his
last
consignment
of
newts.
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