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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
206
I
drew
myself
up.
“That,”
I
replied,
with
dignity,
“is
just
what
I
am
going
to
go
away
and
boil.
At
least,
I
mean,
I
shall
now
leave
you.
I
have
said
my
say.”
“Good.”
“But
permit
me
to
add----”
“I
won’t.”
“Very
good,”
I
said
coldly.
“In
that
case,
tinkerty
tonk.”
And
I
meant
it
to
sting.
“Moody”
and
“discouraged”
were
about
the
two
adjectives
you
would
have
selected
to
describe
me
as
I
left
the
summer-house.
It
would
be
idle
to
deny
that
I
had
expected
better
results
from
this
little
chat.
I
was
surprised
at
Angela.
Odd
how
you
never
realize
that
every
girl
is
at
heart
a
vicious
specimen
until
something
goes
wrong
with
her
love
affair.
This
cousin
and
I
had
been
meeting
freely
since
the
days
when
I
wore
sailor
suits
and
she
hadn’t
any
front
teeth,
yet
only
now
was
I
beginning
to
get
on
to
her
hidden
depths.
A
simple,
jolly,
kindly
young
pimple
she
had
always
struck
me
as--the
sort
you
could
more
or
less
rely
on
not
to
hurt
a
fly.
But
here
she
was
now
laughing
heartlessly--at
least,
I
seemed
to
remember
hearing
her
laugh
heartlessly--like
something
cold
and
callous
out
of
a
sophisticated
talkie,
and
fairly
spitting
on
her
hands
in
her
determination
to
bring
Tuppy’s
grey
hairs
in
sorrow
to
the
grave.
I’ve
said
it
before,
and
I’ll
say
it
again--girls
are
rummy.
Old
Pop
Kipling
never
said
a
truer
word
than
when
he
made
that
crack
about
the
f.
of
the
s.
being
more
d.
than
the
m.
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