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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
264
“Yes,
Jeeves?”
I
said,
champing
contentedly.
“In
the
matter
of
your
mess-jacket,
sir.”
A
nameless
fear
shot
through
me,
causing
me
to
swallow
a
mouthful
of
omelette
the
wrong
way.
“I
am
sorry
to
say,
sir,
that
while
I
was
ironing
it
this
afternoon
I
was
careless
enough
to
leave
the
hot
instrument
upon
it.
I
very
much
fear
that
it
will
be
impossible
for
you
to
wear
it
again,
sir.”
One
of
those
old
pregnant
silences
filled
the
room.
“I
am
extremely
sorry,
sir.”
For
a
moment,
I
confess,
that
generous
wrath
of
mine
came
bounding
back,
hitching
up
its
muscles
and
snorting
a
bit
through
the
nose,
but,
as
we
say
on
the
Riviera,
à
quoi
sert-il?
There
was
nothing
to
be
gained
by
g.w.
now.
We
Woosters
can
bite
the
bullet.
I
nodded
moodily
and
speared
another
slab
of
omelette.
“Right
ho,
Jeeves.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
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