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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
203
She
seemed
to
come
out
of
a
reverie.
She
looked
at
me
inquiringly.
“I’m
sorry,
Bertie,
I
didn’t
hear.
What
were
you
talking
drivel
about?”
“I
was
not
talking
drivel.”
“Oh,
sorry,
I
thought
you
said
you
were.”
“Is
it
likely
that
I
would
come
out
here
in
order
to
talk
drivel?”
“Very
likely.”
I
thought
it
best
to
haul
off
and
approach
the
matter
from
another
angle.
“I’ve
just
been
seeing
Tuppy.”
“Oh?”
“And
Gussie
Fink-Nottle.”
“Oh,
yes?”
“It
appears
that
you
have
gone
and
got
engaged
to
the
latter.”
“Quite
right.”
“Well,
that’s
what
I
meant
when
I
said
it
was
all
perfect
drivel.
You
can’t
possibly
love
a
chap
like
Gussie.”
“Why
not?”
“You
simply
can’t.”
Well,
I
mean
to
say,
of
course
she
couldn’t.
Nobody
could
love
a
freak
like
Gussie
except
a
similar
freak
like
the
Bassett.
The
shot
wasn’t
on
the
board.
A
splendid
chap,
of
course,
in
many
ways--courteous,
amiable,
and
just
the
fellow
to
tell
you
what
to
do
till
the
doctor
came,
if
you
had
a
sick
newt
on
your
hands--but
quite
obviously
not
of
Mendelssohn’s
March
timber.
I
have
no
doubt
that
you
could
have
flung
bricks
by
the
hour
in
England’s
most
densely
populated
districts
without
endangering
the
safety
of
a
single
girl
capable
of
becoming
Mrs.
Augustus
Fink-Nottle
without
an
anaesthetic.
I
put
this
to
her,
and
she
was
forced
to
admit
the
justice
of
it.
“All
right,
then.
Perhaps
I
don’t.”
“Then
what,”
I
said
keenly,
“did
you
want
to
go
and
get
engaged
to
him
for,
you
unreasonable
young
fathead?”
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