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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
195
My
relief
on
hearing
these
words,
containing
as
they
did
no
reference
of
any
sort
to
tickled
ankles,
was,
as
I
say,
great.
But
I
don’t
think
it
was
any
greater
than
my
surprise.
Months
had
passed
since
that
painful
episode
at
the
Drones,
and
until
now
he
hadn’t
given
a
sign
of
remorse
and
contrition.
Indeed,
word
had
reached
me
through
private
sources
that
he
frequently
told
the
story
at
dinners
and
other
gatherings
and,
when
doing
so,
laughed
his
silly
head
off.
I
found
it
hard
to
understand,
accordingly,
what
could
have
caused
him
to
abase
himself
at
this
later
date.
Presumably
he
had
been
given
the
elbow
by
his
better
self,
but
why?
Still,
there
it
was.
“My
dear
chap,”
I
said,
gentlemanly
to
the
gills,
“don’t
mention
it.”
“What’s
the
sense
of
saying,
‘Don’t
mention
it’?
I
have
mentioned
it.”
“I
mean,
don’t
mention
it
any
more.
Don’t
give
the
matter
another
thought.
We
all
of
us
forget
ourselves
sometimes
and
do
things
which,
in
our
calmer
moments,
we
regret.
No
doubt
you
were
a
bit
tight
at
the
time.”
“What
the
devil
do
you
think
you’re
talking
about?”
I
didn’t
like
his
tone.
Brusque.
“Correct
me
if
I
am
wrong,”
I
said,
with
a
certain
stiffness,
“but
I
assumed
that
you
were
apologizing
for
your
foul
conduct
in
looping
back
the
last
ring
that
night
in
the
Drones,
causing
me
to
plunge
into
the
swimming
b.
in
the
full
soup
and
fish.”
“Ass!
Not
that,
at
all.”
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