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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
193
“No,
sir.”
“But
he’s
betrothed.”
“No
longer,
sir.
Miss
Bassett
has
severed
the
engagement.”
“You
don’t
mean
that?”
“Yes,
sir.”
I
wonder
if
you
have
noticed
a
rather
peculiar
thing
about
this
chronicle.
I
allude
to
the
fact
that
at
one
time
or
another
practically
everybody
playing
a
part
in
it
has
had
occasion
to
bury
his
or
her
face
in
his
or
her
hands.
I
have
participated
in
some
pretty
glutinous
affairs
in
my
time,
but
I
think
that
never
before
or
since
have
I
been
mixed
up
with
such
a
solid
body
of
brow
clutchers.
Uncle
Tom
did
it,
if
you
remember.
So
did
Gussie.
So
did
Tuppy.
So,
probably,
though
I
have
no
data,
did
Anatole,
and
I
wouldn’t
put
it
past
the
Bassett.
And
Aunt
Dahlia,
I
have
no
doubt,
would
have
done
it,
too,
but
for
the
risk
of
disarranging
the
carefully
fixed
coiffure.
Well,
what
I
am
trying
to
say
is
that
at
this
juncture
I
did
it
myself.
Up
went
the
hands
and
down
went
the
head,
and
in
another
jiffy
I
was
clutching
as
energetically
as
the
best
of
them.
And
it
was
while
I
was
still
massaging
the
coconut
and
wondering
what
the
next
move
was
that
something
barged
up
against
the
door
like
the
delivery
of
a
ton
of
coals.
“I
think
this
may
very
possibly
be
Mr.
Fink-Nottle
himself,
sir,”
said
Jeeves.
His
intuition,
however,
had
led
him
astray.
It
was
not
Gussie
but
Tuppy.
He
came
in
and
stood
breathing
asthmatically.
It
was
plain
that
he
was
deeply
stirred.
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