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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
227
Nevertheless,
I
persevered.
“But
have
you
considered,”
I
said,
“that
you
may
have
got
a
wrong
line
on
Gussie’s
performance
this
afternoon?
Admitted
that
all
the
evidence
points
to
a
more
sinister
theory,
what
price
him
simply
having
got
a
touch
of
the
sun?
Chaps
do
get
touches
of
the
sun,
you
know,
especially
when
the
weather’s
hot.”
She
looked
at
me,
and
I
saw
that
she
was
putting
in
a
bit
of
the
old
drenched-irises
stuff.
“It
was
like
you
to
say
that,
Bertie.
I
respect
you
for
it.”
“Oh,
no.”
“Yes.
You
have
a
splendid,
chivalrous
soul.”
“Not
a
bit.”
“Yes,
you
have.
You
remind
me
of
Cyrano.”
“Who?”
“Cyrano
de
Bergerac.”
“The
chap
with
the
nose?”
“Yes.”
I
can’t
say
I
was
any
too
pleased.
I
felt
the
old
beak
furtively.
It
was
a
bit
on
the
prominent
side,
perhaps,
but,
dash
it,
not
in
the
Cyrano
class.
It
began
to
look
as
if
the
next
thing
this
girl
would
do
would
be
to
compare
me
to
Schnozzle
Durante.
“He
loved,
but
pleaded
another’s
cause.”
“Oh,
I
see
what
you
mean
now.”
“I
like
you
for
that,
Bertie.
It
was
fine
of
you--fine
and
big.
But
it
is
no
use.
There
are
things
which
kill
love.
I
can
never
forget
Augustus,
but
my
love
for
him
is
dead.
I
will
be
your
wife.”
Well,
one
has
to
be
civil.
“Right
ho,”
I
said.
“Thanks
awfully.”
Then
the
dialogue
sort
of
poofed
out
once
more,
and
we
stood
eating
cheese
straws
and
cold
eggs
respectively
in
silence.
There
seemed
to
exist
some
little
uncertainty
as
to
what
the
next
move
was.
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