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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
18
It
jars
on
me.
And
tonight
it
jarred
on
me
more
than
usual,
because
I
was
feeling
pretty
dashed
fed
with
Jeeves.
Over
that
matter
of
the
mess
jacket,
I
mean.
True,
I
had
forced
him
to
climb
down,
quelling
him,
as
described,
with
the
quiet
strength
of
my
personality,
but
I
was
still
a
trifle
shirty
at
his
having
brought
the
thing
up
at
all.
It
seemed
to
me
that
what
Jeeves
wanted
was
the
iron
hand.
“And
what
is
he
doing
about
it?”
I
inquired
stiffly.
“He’s
been
giving
the
position
of
affairs
a
lot
of
thought.”
“He
has,
has
he?”
“It’s
on
his
advice
that
I’m
going
to
this
dance.”
“Why?”
“She
is
going
to
be
there.
In
fact,
it
was
she
who
sent
me
the
ticket
of
invitation.
And
Jeeves
considered----”
“And
why
not
as
a
Pierrot?”
I
said,
taking
up
the
point
which
had
struck
me
before.
“Why
this
break
with
a
grand
old
tradition?”
“He
particularly
wanted
me
to
go
as
Mephistopheles.”
I
started.
“He
did,
did
he?
He
specifically
recommended
that
definite
costume?”
“Yes.”
“Ha!”
“Eh?”
“Nothing.
Just
‘Ha!’”
And
I’ll
tell
you
why
I
said
“Ha!”
Here
was
Jeeves
making
heavy
weather
about
me
wearing
a
perfectly
ordinary
white
mess
jacket,
a
garment
not
only
tout
ce
qu’il
y
a
de
chic,
but
absolutely
de
rigueur,
and
in
the
same
breath,
as
you
might
say,
inciting
Gussie
Fink-Nottle
to
be
a
blot
on
the
London
scene
in
scarlet
tights.
Ironical,
what?
One
looks
askance
at
this
sort
of
in-and-out
running.
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