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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
207
It
seemed
to
me
in
the
circs.
that
there
was
but
one
thing
to
do--that
is
head
for
the
dining-room
and
take
a
slash
at
the
cold
collation
of
which
Jeeves
had
spoken.
I
felt
in
urgent
need
of
sustenance,
for
the
recent
interview
had
pulled
me
down
a
bit.
There
is
no
gainsaying
the
fact
that
this
naked-emotion
stuff
reduces
a
chap’s
vitality
and
puts
him
in
the
vein
for
a
good
whack
at
the
beef
and
ham.
To
the
dining-room,
accordingly,
I
repaired,
and
had
barely
crossed
the
threshold
when
I
perceived
Aunt
Dahlia
at
the
sideboard,
tucking
into
salmon
mayonnaise.
The
spectacle
drew
from
me
a
quick
“Oh,
ah,”
for
I
was
somewhat
embarrassed.
The
last
time
this
relative
and
I
had
enjoyed
a
tête-à-tête,
it
will
be
remembered,
she
had
sketched
out
plans
for
drowning
me
in
the
kitchen-garden
pond,
and
I
was
not
quite
sure
what
my
present
standing
with
her
was.
I
was
relieved
to
find
her
in
genial
mood.
Nothing
could
have
exceeded
the
cordiality
with
which
she
waved
her
fork.
“Hallo,
Bertie,
you
old
ass,”
was
her
very
matey
greeting.
“I
thought
I
shouldn’t
find
you
far
away
from
the
food.
Try
some
of
this
salmon.
Excellent.”
“Anatole’s?”
I
queried.
“No.
He’s
still
in
bed.
But
the
kitchen
maid
has
struck
an
inspired
streak.
It
suddenly
seems
to
have
come
home
to
her
that
she
isn’t
catering
for
a
covey
of
buzzards
in
the
Sahara
Desert,
and
she
has
put
out
something
quite
fit
for
human
consumption.
There
is
good
in
the
girl,
after
all,
and
I
hope
she
enjoys
herself
at
the
dance.”
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