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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
242
“But
he’s
gone
to
the
dance
at
Kingham.”
It
was
the
final
wallop.
Until
this
moment,
Aunt
Dahlia
had
been
able
to
preserve
her
frozen
calm.
The
dam
now
burst.
The
years
rolled
away
from
her,
and
she
was
once
more
the
Dahlia
Wooster
of
the
old
yoicks-and-tantivy
days--the
emotional,
free-speaking
girl
who
had
so
often
risen
in
her
stirrups
to
yell
derogatory
personalities
at
people
who
were
heading
hounds.
“Curse
all
dancing
chauffeurs!
What
on
earth
does
a
chauffeur
want
to
dance
for?
I
mistrusted
that
man
from
the
start.
Something
told
me
he
was
a
dancer.
Well,
this
finishes
it.
We’re
out
here
till
breakfast-time.
If
those
blasted
servants
come
back
before
eight
o’clock,
I
shall
be
vastly
surprised.
You
won’t
get
Seppings
away
from
a
dance
till
you
throw
him
out.
I
know
him.
The
jazz’ll
go
to
his
head,
and
he’ll
stand
clapping
and
demanding
encores
till
his
hands
blister.
Damn
all
dancing
butlers!
What
is
Brinkley
Court?
A
respectable
English
country
house
or
a
crimson
dancing
school?
One
might
as
well
be
living
in
the
middle
of
the
Russian
Ballet.
Well,
all
right.
If
we
must
stay
out
here,
we
must.
We
shall
all
be
frozen
stiff,
except”--here
she
directed
at
me
not
one
of
her
friendliest
glances----“except
dear
old
Attila,
who
is,
I
observe,
well
and
warmly
clad.
We
will
resign
ourselves
to
the
prospect
of
freezing
to
death
like
the
Babes
in
the
Wood,
merely
expressing
a
dying
wish
that
our
old
pal
Attila
will
see
that
we
are
covered
with
leaves.
No
doubt
he
will
also
toll
that
fire
bell
of
his
as
a
mark
of
respect--And
what
might
you
want,
my
good
man?”
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