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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
51
“Yes,
sir.”
“Still,
there
it
is.”
“Undoubtedly,
sir.”
“Right
ho,
then.
Switch
on
the
bath.”
“Very
good,
sir.”
-7-
I
meditated
pretty
freely
as
I
drove
down
to
Brinkley
in
the
old
two-seater
that
afternoon.
The
news
of
this
rift
or
rupture
of
Angela’s
and
Tuppy’s
had
disturbed
me
greatly.
The
projected
match,
you
see,
was
one
on
which
I
had
always
looked
with
kindly
approval.
Too
often,
when
a
chap
of
your
acquaintance
is
planning
to
marry
a
girl
you
know,
you
find
yourself
knitting
the
brow
a
bit
and
chewing
the
lower
lip
dubiously,
feeling
that
he
or
she,
or
both,
should
be
warned
while
there
is
yet
time.
But
I
have
never
felt
anything
of
this
nature
about
Tuppy
and
Angela.
Tuppy,
when
not
making
an
ass
of
himself,
is
a
soundish
sort
of
egg.
So
is
Angela
a
soundish
sort
of
egg.
And,
as
far
as
being
in
love
was
concerned,
it
had
always
seemed
to
me
that
you
wouldn’t
have
been
far
out
in
describing
them
as
two
hearts
that
beat
as
one.
True,
they
had
had
their
little
tiffs,
notably
on
the
occasion
when
Tuppy--with
what
he
said
was
fearless
honesty
and
I
considered
thorough
goofiness--had
told
Angela
that
her
new
hat
made
her
look
like
a
Pekingese.
But
in
every
romance
you
have
to
budget
for
the
occasional
dust-up,
and
after
that
incident
I
had
supposed
that
he
had
learned
his
lesson
and
that
from
then
on
life
would
be
one
grand,
sweet
song.
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