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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
29
I
gave
her
another
of
the
austere
and
censorious,
and
this
time
it
registered.
All
the
effect
it
had,
however,
was
to
cause
her
to
descend
to
personalities.
“Don’t
blink
at
me
in
that
obscene
way,”
she
said.
“I
wonder,
Bertie,”
she
proceeded,
gazing
at
me
as
I
should
imagine
Gussie
would
have
gazed
at
some
newt
that
was
not
up
to
sample,
“if
you
have
the
faintest
conception
how
perfectly
loathsome
you
look?
A
cross
between
an
orgy
scene
in
the
movies
and
some
low
form
of
pond
life.
I
suppose
you
were
out
on
the
tiles
last
night?”
“I
attended
a
social
function,
yes,”
I
said
coldly.
“Pongo
Twistleton’s
birthday
party.
I
couldn’t
let
Pongo
down.
Noblesse
oblige.”
“Well,
get
up
and
dress.”
I
felt
I
could
not
have
heard
her
aright.
“Get
up
and
dress?”
“Yes.”
I
turned
on
the
pillow
with
a
little
moan,
and
at
this
juncture
Jeeves
entered
with
the
vital
oolong.
I
clutched
at
it
like
a
drowning
man
at
a
straw
hat.
A
deep
sip
or
two,
and
I
felt--I
won’t
say
restored,
because
a
birthday
party
like
Pongo
Twistleton’s
isn’t
a
thing
you
get
restored
after
with
a
mere
mouthful
of
tea,
but
sufficiently
the
old
Bertram
to
be
able
to
bend
the
mind
on
this
awful
thing
which
had
come
upon
me.
And
the
more
I
bent
same,
the
less
could
I
grasp
the
trend
of
the
scenario.
“What
is
this,
Aunt
Dahlia?”
I
inquired.
“It
looks
to
me
like
tea,”
was
her
response.
“But
you
know
best.
You’re
drinking
it.”
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