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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
212
Watching
this
fist-waving
cook
and
this
goggling
guest,
I
must
say
that
my
sympathies
were
completely
with
the
former.
I
considered
him
thoroughly
justified
in
waving
all
the
fists
he
wanted
to.
Review
the
facts,
I
mean
to
say.
There
he
had
been,
lying
in
bed,
thinking
idly
of
whatever
French
cooks
do
think
about
when
in
bed,
and
he
had
suddenly
become
aware
of
that
frightful
face
at
the
window.
A
thing
to
jar
the
most
phlegmatic.
I
know
I
should
hate
to
be
lying
in
bed
and
have
Gussie
popping
up
like
that.
A
chap’s
bedroom--you
can’t
get
away
from
it--is
his
castle,
and
he
has
every
right
to
look
askance
if
gargoyles
come
glaring
in
at
him.
While
I
stood
musing
thus,
Aunt
Dahlia,
in
her
practical
way,
was
coming
straight
to
the
point:
“What’s
all
this?”
Anatole
did
a
sort
of
Swedish
exercise,
starting
at
the
base
of
the
spine,
carrying
on
through
the
shoulder-blades
and
finishing
up
among
the
back
hair.
Then
he
told
her.
In
the
chats
I
have
had
with
this
wonder
man,
I
have
always
found
his
English
fluent,
but
a
bit
on
the
mixed
side.
If
you
remember,
he
was
with
Mrs.
Bingo
Little
for
a
time
before
coming
to
Brinkley,
and
no
doubt
he
picked
up
a
good
deal
from
Bingo.
Before
that,
he
had
been
a
couple
of
years
with
an
American
family
at
Nice
and
had
studied
under
their
chauffeur,
one
of
the
Maloneys
of
Brooklyn.
So,
what
with
Bingo
and
what
with
Maloney,
he
is,
as
I
say,
fluent
but
a
bit
mixed.
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