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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
255
The
last
person,
of
course,
whom
I
would
have
wished
to
meet
after
a
long
evening
in
the
saddle,
but
I
vouchsafed
a
courteous
“What
ho!”
There
was
a
pause,
during
which
I
massaged
the
calves.
Mine,
of
course,
I
mean.
“You
got
in,
then?”
I
said,
in
allusion
to
the
change
of
costume.
“Oh,
yes.
About
a
quarter
of
an
hour
after
you
left
Jeeves
went
searching
about
and
found
the
back-door
key
on
the
kitchen
window-sill.”
“Ha!”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I
thought
you
said
something.”
“No,
nothing.”
And
I
continued
to
do
so.
For
at
this
juncture,
as
had
so
often
happened
when
this
girl
and
I
were
closeted,
the
conversation
once
more
went
blue
on
us.
The
night
breeze
whispered,
but
not
the
Bassett.
A
bird
twittered,
but
not
so
much
as
a
chirp
escaped
Bertram.
It
was
perfectly
amazing,
the
way
her
mere
presence
seemed
to
wipe
speech
from
my
lips--and
mine,
for
that
matter,
from
hers.
It
began
to
look
as
if
our
married
life
together
would
be
rather
like
twenty
years
among
the
Trappist
monks.
“Seen
Jeeves
anywhere?”
I
asked,
eventually
coming
through.
“Yes,
in
the
dining-room.”
“The
dining-room?”
“Waiting
on
everybody.
They
are
having
eggs
and
bacon
and
champagne....
What
did
you
say?”
I
had
said
nothing--merely
snorted.
There
was
something
about
the
thought
of
these
people
carelessly
revelling
at
a
time
when,
for
all
they
knew,
I
was
probably
being
dragged
about
the
countryside
by
goats
or
chewed
by
elephants,
that
struck
home
at
me
like
a
poisoned
dart.
It
was
the
sort
of
thing
you
read
about
as
having
happened
just
before
the
French
Revolution--the
haughty
nobles
in
their
castles
callously
digging
in
and
quaffing
while
the
unfortunate
blighters
outside
were
suffering
frightful
privations.
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