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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
156
“Home
truths?”
“That’s
right.”
He
snorted
once
more,
causing
me
to
feel
rather
like
royalty
receiving
a
twenty-one
gun
salute
from
the
fleet.
I
can’t
remember
ever
having
met
a
better
right-and-left-hand
snorter.
“What
do
you
mean,
‘home
truths’?
I’m
not
fat.”
“No,
no.”
“And
what’s
wrong
with
the
colour
of
my
hair?”
“Quite
in
order,
Tuppy,
old
man.
The
hair,
I
mean.”
“And
I’m
not
a
bit
thin
on
the
top....
What
the
dickens
are
you
grinning
about?”
“Not
grinning.
Just
smiling
slightly.
I
was
conjuring
up
a
sort
of
vision,
if
you
know
what
I
mean,
of
you
as
seen
through
Angela’s
eyes.
Fat
in
the
middle
and
thin
on
the
top.
Rather
funny.”
“You
think
it
funny,
do
you?”
“Not
a
bit.”
“You’d
better
not.”
“Quite.”
It
seemed
to
me
that
the
conversation
was
becoming
difficult
again.
I
wished
it
could
be
terminated.
And
so
it
was.
For
at
this
moment
something
came
shimmering
through
the
laurels
in
the
quiet
evenfall,
and
I
perceived
that
it
was
Angela.
She
was
looking
sweet
and
saintlike,
and
she
had
a
plate
of
sandwiches
in
her
hand.
Ham,
I
was
to
discover
later.
“If
you
see
Mr.
Glossop
anywhere,
Bertie,”
she
said,
her
eyes
resting
dreamily
on
Tuppy’s
facade,
“I
wish
you
would
give
him
these.
I’m
so
afraid
he
may
be
hungry,
poor
fellow.
It’s
nearly
ten
o’clock,
and
he
hasn’t
eaten
a
morsel
since
dinner.
I’ll
just
leave
them
on
this
bench.”
She
pushed
off,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
I
might
as
well
go
with
her.
Nothing
to
keep
me
here,
I
mean.
We
moved
towards
the
house,
and
presently
from
behind
us
there
sounded
in
the
night
the
splintering
crash
of
a
well-kicked
plate
of
ham
sandwiches,
accompanied
by
the
muffled
oaths
of
a
strong
man
in
his
wrath.
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