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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
224
“Oh!”
she
said.
I
have
always
found
that
there
is
nothing
that
helps
to
ease
you
over
one
of
these
awkward
moments
like
a
spot
of
stage
business.
Find
something
to
do
with
your
hands,
and
it’s
half
the
battle.
I
grabbed
a
plate
and
hastened
forward.
“A
touch
of
salmon?”
“Thank
you.”
“With
a
suspicion
of
salad?”
“If
you
please.”
“And
to
drink?
Name
the
poison.”
“I
think
I
would
like
a
little
orange
juice.”
She
gave
a
gulp.
Not
at
the
orange
juice,
I
don’t
mean,
because
she
hadn’t
got
it
yet,
but
at
all
the
tender
associations
those
two
words
provoked.
It
was
as
if
someone
had
mentioned
spaghetti
to
the
relict
of
an
Italian
organ-grinder.
Her
face
flushed
a
deeper
shade,
she
registered
anguish,
and
I
saw
that
it
was
no
longer
within
the
sphere
of
practical
politics
to
try
to
confine
the
conversation
to
neutral
topics
like
cold
boiled
salmon.
So
did
she,
I
imagine,
for
when
I,
as
a
preliminary
to
getting
down
to
brass
tacks,
said
“Er,”
she
said
“Er,”
too,
simultaneously,
the
brace
of
“Ers”
clashing
in
mid-air.
“I’m
sorry.”
“I
beg
your
pardon.”
“You
were
saying----”
“You
were
saying----”
“No,
please
go
on.”
“Oh,
right-ho.”
I
straightened
the
tie,
my
habit
when
in
this
girl’s
society,
and
had
at
it:
“With
reference
to
yours
of
even
date----”
She
flushed
again,
and
took
a
rather
strained
forkful
of
salmon.
“You
got
my
note?”
“Yes,
I
got
your
note.”
“I
gave
it
to
Jeeves
to
give
it
to
you.”
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