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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
216
“Well?”
she
said.
In
answer
to
this,
all
that
Gussie
could
produce
was
a
sort
of
strangled
hiccough.
“Well?”
Aunt
Dahlia’s
face
grew
darker.
Hunting,
if
indulged
in
regularly
over
a
period
of
years,
is
a
pastime
that
seldom
fails
to
lend
a
fairly
deepish
tinge
to
the
patient’s
complexion,
and
her
best
friends
could
not
have
denied
that
even
at
normal
times
the
relative’s
map
tended
a
little
toward
the
crushed
strawberry.
But
never
had
I
seen
it
take
on
so
pronounced
a
richness
as
now.
She
looked
like
a
tomato
struggling
for
self-expression.
“Well?”
Gussie
tried
hard.
And
for
a
moment
it
seemed
as
if
something
was
going
to
come
through.
But
in
the
end
it
turned
out
nothing
more
than
a
sort
of
death-rattle.
“Oh,
take
him
away,
Bertie,
and
put
ice
on
his
head,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia,
giving
the
thing
up.
And
she
turned
to
tackle
what
looked
like
the
rather
man’s
size
job
of
soothing
Anatole,
who
was
now
carrying
on
a
muttered
conversation
with
himself
in
a
rapid
sort
of
way.
Seeming
to
feel
that
the
situation
was
one
to
which
he
could
not
do
justice
in
Bingo-cum-Maloney
Anglo-American,
he
had
fallen
back
on
his
native
tongue.
Words
like
“marmiton
de
Domange,”
“pignouf,”
“hurluberlu”
and
“roustisseur”
were
fluttering
from
him
like
bats
out
of
a
barn.
Lost
on
me,
of
course,
because,
though
I
sweated
a
bit
at
the
Gallic
language
during
that
Cannes
visit,
I’m
still
more
or
less
in
the
Esker-vous-avez
stage.
I
regretted
this,
for
they
sounded
good.
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