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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
220
“He
had
boils.”
“Well,
what
are
boils?”
“Dashed
painful,
I
understand.”
“Nonsense.
I’d
take
all
the
boils
on
the
market
in
exchange
for
my
troubles.
Can’t
you
realize
the
position?
I’ve
lost
the
best
cook
to
England.
My
husband,
poor
soul,
will
probably
die
of
dyspepsia.
And
my
only
daughter,
for
whom
I
had
dreamed
such
a
wonderful
future,
is
engaged
to
be
married
to
an
inebriated
newt
fancier.
And
you
talk
about
boils!”
I
corrected
her
on
a
small
point:
“I
don’t
absolutely
talk
about
boils.
I
merely
mentioned
that
Job
had
them.
Yes,
I
agree
with
you,
Aunt
Dahlia,
that
things
are
not
looking
too
oojah-cum-spiff
at
the
moment,
but
be
of
good
cheer.
A
Wooster
is
seldom
baffled
for
more
than
the
nonce.”
“You
rather
expect
to
be
coming
along
shortly
with
another
of
your
schemes?”
“At
any
minute.”
She
sighed
resignedly.
“I
thought
as
much.
Well,
it
needed
but
this.
I
don’t
see
how
things
could
possibly
be
worse
than
they
are,
but
no
doubt
you
will
succeed
in
making
them
so.
Your
genius
and
insight
will
find
the
way.
Carry
on,
Bertie.
Yes,
carry
on.
I
am
past
caring
now.
I
shall
even
find
a
faint
interest
in
seeing
into
what
darker
and
profounder
abysses
of
hell
you
can
plunge
this
home.
Go
to
it,
lad....
What’s
that
stuff
you’re
eating?”
“I
find
it
a
little
difficult
to
classify.
Some
sort
of
paste
on
toast.
Rather
like
glue
flavoured
with
beef
extract.”
“Gimme,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia
listlessly.
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