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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
154
And
I
was
on
the
brink
of
adding
that
I
wouldn’t
touch
Angela
with
a
barge
pole,
when
I
remembered
I
had
said
it
already
and
it
hadn’t
gone
frightfully
well.
I
desisted,
therefore.
My
manly
frankness
seemed
to
be
producing
good
results.
The
homicidal
glare
was
dying
out
of
Tuppy’s
eyes.
He
had
the
aspect
of
a
hired
assassin
who
had
paused
to
think
things
over.
“I
see,”
he
said,
at
length.
“All
right,
then.
Sorry
you
were
troubled.”
“Don’t
mention
it,
old
man,”
I
responded
courteously.
For
the
first
time
since
the
bushes
had
begun
to
pour
forth
Glossops,
Bertram
Wooster
could
be
said
to
have
breathed
freely.
I
don’t
say
I
actually
came
out
from
behind
the
bench,
but
I
did
let
go
of
it,
and
with
something
of
the
relief
which
those
three
chaps
in
the
Old
Testament
must
have
experienced
after
sliding
out
of
the
burning
fiery
furnace,
I
even
groped
tentatively
for
my
cigarette
case.
The
next
moment
a
sudden
snort
made
me
take
my
fingers
off
it
as
if
it
had
bitten
me.
I
was
distressed
to
note
in
the
old
friend
a
return
of
the
recent
frenzy.
“What
the
hell
did
you
mean
by
telling
her
that
I
used
to
be
covered
with
ink
when
I
was
a
kid?”
“My
dear
Tuppy----”
“I
was
almost
finickingly
careful
about
my
personal
cleanliness
as
a
boy.
You
could
have
eaten
your
dinner
off
me.”
“Quite.
But----”
“And
all
that
stuff
about
having
no
soul.
I’m
crawling
with
soul.
And
being
looked
on
as
an
outsider
at
the
Drones----”
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