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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
28
This
being
so,
you
may
conceive
of
my
astonishment
at
finding
her
at
my
bedside
at
such
an
hour.
I
mean
to
say,
I’ve
stayed
at
her
place
many
a
time
and
oft,
and
she
knows
my
habits.
She
is
well
aware
that
until
I
have
had
my
cup
of
tea
in
the
morning,
I
do
not
receive.
This
crashing
in
at
a
moment
when
she
knew
that
solitude
and
repose
were
of
the
essence
was
scarcely,
I
could
not
but
feel,
the
good
old
form.
Besides,
what
business
had
she
being
in
London
at
all?
That
was
what
I
asked
myself.
When
a
conscientious
housewife
has
returned
to
her
home
after
an
absence
of
seven
weeks,
one
does
not
expect
her
to
start
racing
off
again
the
day
after
her
arrival.
One
feels
that
she
ought
to
be
sticking
round,
ministering
to
her
husband,
conferring
with
the
cook,
feeding
the
cat,
combing
and
brushing
the
Pomeranian--in
a
word,
staying
put.
I
was
more
than
a
little
bleary-eyed,
but
I
endeavoured,
as
far
as
the
fact
that
my
eyelids
were
more
or
less
glued
together
would
permit,
to
give
her
an
austere
and
censorious
look.
She
didn’t
seem
to
get
it.
“Wake
up,
Bertie,
you
old
ass!”
she
cried,
in
a
voice
that
hit
me
between
the
eyebrows
and
went
out
at
the
back
of
my
head.
If
Aunt
Dahlia
has
a
fault,
it
is
that
she
is
apt
to
address
a
vis-à-vis
as
if
he
were
somebody
half
a
mile
away
whom
she
had
observed
riding
over
hounds.
A
throwback,
no
doubt,
to
the
time
when
she
counted
the
day
lost
that
was
not
spent
in
chivvying
some
unfortunate
fox
over
the
countryside.
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