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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
27
Pongo
had
assured
me,
while
chatting
of
the
affair
on
the
previous
night,
that
this
birthday
binge
of
his
was
to
be
on
a
scale
calculated
to
stagger
humanity,
and
I
must
say
I
have
participated
in
less
fruity
functions.
It
was
well
after
four
when
I
got
home,
and
by
that
time
I
was
about
ready
to
turn
in.
I
can
just
remember
groping
for
the
bed
and
crawling
into
it,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
the
lemon
had
scarcely
touched
the
pillow
before
I
was
aroused
by
the
sound
of
the
door
opening.
I
was
barely
ticking
over,
but
I
contrived
to
raise
an
eyelid.
“Is
that
my
tea,
Jeeves?”
“No,
sir.
It
is
Mrs.
Travers.”
And
a
moment
later
there
was
a
sound
like
a
mighty
rushing
wind,
and
the
relative
had
crossed
the
threshold
at
fifty
m.p.h.
under
her
own
steam.
-4-
It
has
been
well
said
of
Bertram
Wooster
that,
while
no
one
views
his
flesh
and
blood
with
a
keener
and
more
remorselessly
critical
eye,
he
is
nevertheless
a
man
who
delights
in
giving
credit
where
credit
is
due.
And
if
you
have
followed
these
memoirs
of
mine
with
the
proper
care,
you
will
be
aware
that
I
have
frequently
had
occasion
to
emphasise
the
fact
that
Aunt
Dahlia
is
all
right.
She
is
the
one,
if
you
remember,
who
married
old
Tom
Travers
en
secondes
noces,
as
I
believe
the
expression
is,
the
year
Bluebottle
won
the
Cambridgeshire,
and
once
induced
me
to
write
an
article
on
What
the
Well-Dressed
Man
is
Wearing
for
that
paper
she
runs--Milady’s
Boudoir.
She
is
a
large,
genial
soul,
with
whom
it
is
a
pleasure
to
hob-nob.
In
her
spiritual
make-up
there
is
none
of
that
subtle
gosh-awfulness
which
renders
such
an
exhibit
as,
say,
my
Aunt
Agatha
the
curse
of
the
Home
Counties
and
a
menace
to
one
and
all.
I
have
the
highest
esteem
for
Aunt
Dahlia,
and
have
never
wavered
in
my
cordial
appreciation
of
her
humanity,
sporting
qualities
and
general
good-eggishness.
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