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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
258
“Release
you?”
“Yes.”
I
didn’t
want
any
confusion
on
the
point.
“You
mean
you
want
to
call
it
all
off?
You’re
going
to
hitch
up
with
Gussie,
after
all?”
“Only
if
you
are
fine
and
big
enough
to
consent.”
“Oh,
I
am.”
“I
gave
you
my
promise.”
“Dash
promises.”
“Then
you
really----”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh,
Bertie!”
She
seemed
to
sway
like
a
sapling.
It
is
saplings
that
sway,
I
believe.
“A
very
parfait
knight!”
I
heard
her
murmur,
and
there
not
being
much
to
say
after
that,
I
excused
myself
on
the
ground
that
I
had
got
about
two
pecks
of
dust
down
my
back
and
would
like
to
go
and
get
my
maid
to
put
me
into
something
loose.
“You
go
back
to
Gussie,”
I
said,
“and
tell
him
that
all
is
well.”
She
gave
a
sort
of
hiccup
and,
darting
forward,
kissed
me
on
the
forehead.
Unpleasant,
of
course,
but,
as
Anatole
would
say,
I
can
take
a
few
smooths
with
a
rough.
The
next
moment
she
was
legging
it
for
the
dining-room,
while
I,
having
bunged
the
bicycle
into
a
bush,
made
for
the
stairs.
I
need
not
dwell
upon
my
buckedness.
It
can
be
readily
imagined.
Talk
about
chaps
with
the
noose
round
their
necks
and
the
hangman
about
to
let
her
go
and
somebody
galloping
up
on
a
foaming
horse,
waving
the
reprieve--not
in
it.
Absolutely
not
in
it
at
all.
I
don’t
know
that
I
can
give
you
a
better
idea
of
the
state
of
my
feelings
than
by
saying
that
as
I
started
to
cross
the
hall
I
was
conscious
of
so
profound
a
benevolence
toward
all
created
things
that
I
found
myself
thinking
kindly
thoughts
even
of
Jeeves.
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