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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
239
I
was
not
feeling
unmixedly
at
my
ease.
For
the
first
time
it
was
beginning
to
steal
upon
me
that
I
had
not
prepared
a
really
good
story
in
support
of
my
questionable
behaviour
in
ringing
fire
bells
at
such
an
hour,
and
I
have
known
Aunt
Dahlia
to
express
herself
with
a
hearty
freedom
upon
far
smaller
provocation.
She
exhibited,
however,
no
signs
of
violence.
More
a
sort
of
frozen
calm,
if
you
know
what
I
mean.
You
could
see
that
she
was
a
woman
who
had
suffered.
“Well,
Bertie,
dear,”
she
said,
“here
we
all
are.”
“Quite,”
I
replied
guardedly.
“Nobody
missing,
is
there?”
“I
don’t
think
so.”
“Splendid.
So
much
healthier
for
us
out
in
the
open
like
this
than
frowsting
in
bed.
I
had
just
dropped
off
when
you
did
your
bell-ringing
act.
For
it
was
you,
my
sweet
child,
who
rang
that
bell,
was
it
not?”
“I
did
ring
the
bell,
yes.”
“Any
particular
reason,
or
just
a
whim?”
“I
thought
there
was
a
fire.”
“What
gave
you
that
impression,
dear?”
“I
thought
I
saw
flames.”
“Where,
darling?
Tell
Aunt
Dahlia.”
“In
one
of
the
windows.”
“I
see.
So
we
have
all
been
dragged
out
of
bed
and
scared
rigid
because
you
have
been
seeing
things.”
Here
Uncle
Tom
made
a
noise
like
a
cork
coming
out
of
a
bottle,
and
Anatole,
whose
moustache
had
hit
a
new
low,
said
something
about
“some
apes”
and,
if
I
am
not
mistaken,
a
“rogommier”--whatever
that
is.
“I
admit
I
was
mistaken.
I
am
sorry.”
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