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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
162
And,
keeping
it
snappy,
I
related
what
had
passed
between
the
Bassett
and
myself
on
the
previous
night.
“So
all
you
have
to
do
is
play
a
return
date,
and
you
cannot
fail
to
swing
the
voting.
You
are
her
dream
man.”
He
shook
his
head.
“No.”
“What?”
“No
use.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Not
a
bit
of
good
trying.”
“But
I
tell
you
she
said
in
so
many
words----”
“It
doesn’t
make
any
difference.
She
may
have
loved
me
once.
Last
night
will
have
killed
all
that.”
“Of
course
it
won’t.”
“It
will.
She
despises
me
now.”
“Not
a
bit
of
it.
She
knows
you
simply
got
cold
feet.”
“And
I
should
get
cold
feet
if
I
tried
again.
It’s
no
good,
Bertie.
I’m
hopeless,
and
there’s
an
end
of
it.
Fate
made
me
the
sort
of
chap
who
can’t
say
‘bo’
to
a
goose.”
“It
isn’t
a
question
of
saying
‘bo’
to
a
goose.
The
point
doesn’t
arise
at
all.
It
is
simply
a
matter
of----”
“I
know,
I
know.
But
it’s
no
good.
I
can’t
do
it.
The
whole
thing
is
off.
I
am
not
going
to
risk
a
repetition
of
last
night’s
fiasco.
You
talk
in
a
light
way
of
taking
another
whack
at
her,
but
you
don’t
know
what
it
means.
You
have
not
been
through
the
experience
of
starting
to
ask
the
girl
you
love
to
marry
you
and
then
suddenly
finding
yourself
talking
about
the
plumlike
external
gills
of
the
newly-born
newt.
It’s
not
a
thing
you
can
do
twice.
No,
I
accept
my
destiny.
It’s
all
over.
And
now,
Bertie,
like
a
good
chap,
shove
off.
I
want
to
compose
my
speech.
I
can’t
compose
my
speech
with
you
mucking
around.
If
you
are
going
to
continue
to
muck
around,
at
least
give
me
a
couple
of
stories.
The
little
hell
hounds
are
sure
to
expect
a
story
or
two.”
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