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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
214
I
must
say
I
thought
he
was
making
out
a
jolly
good
case,
and
evidently
Aunt
Dahlia
felt
the
same.
She
laid
a
quivering
hand
on
his
shoulder.
“I
will,
Monsieur
Anatole,
I
will,”
she
said,
and
I
couldn’t
have
believed
that
robust
voice
capable
of
sinking
to
such
an
absolute
coo.
More
like
a
turtle
dove
calling
to
its
mate
than
anything
else.
“It’s
quite
all
right.”
She
had
said
the
wrong
thing.
He
did
Exercise
3.
“All
right?
Nom
d’un
nom
d’un
nom!
The
hell
you
say
it’s
all
right!
Of
what
use
to
pull
stuff
like
that?
Wait
one
half-moment.
Not
yet
quite
so
quick,
my
old
sport.
It
is
by
no
means
all
right.
See
yet
again
a
little.
It
is
some
very
different
dishes
of
fish.
I
can
take
a
few
smooths
with
a
rough,
it
is
true,
but
I
do
not
find
it
agreeable
when
one
play
larks
against
me
on
my
windows.
That
cannot
do.
A
nice
thing,
no.
I
am
a
serious
man.
I
do
not
wish
a
few
larks
on
my
windows.
I
enjoy
larks
on
my
windows
worse
as
any.
It
is
very
little
all
right.
If
such
rannygazoo
is
to
arrive,
I
do
not
remain
any
longer
in
this
house
no
more.
I
buzz
off
and
do
not
stay
planted.”
Sinister
words,
I
had
to
admit,
and
I
was
not
surprised
that
Aunt
Dahlia,
hearing
them,
should
have
uttered
a
cry
like
the
wail
of
a
master
of
hounds
seeing
a
fox
shot.
Anatole
had
begun
to
wave
his
fists
again
at
Gussie,
and
she
now
joined
him.
Seppings,
who
was
puffing
respectfully
in
the
background,
didn’t
actually
wave
his
fists,
but
he
gave
Gussie
a
pretty
austere
look.
It
was
plain
to
the
thoughtful
observer
that
this
Fink-Nottle,
in
getting
on
to
that
skylight,
had
done
a
mistaken
thing.
He
couldn’t
have
been
more
unpopular
in
the
home
of
G.G.
Simmons.
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