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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
53
“Worried
is
right.
I
haven’t
had
a
peaceful
moment
since
I
got
back
from
Cannes.
Ever
since
I
put
my
foot
across
this
blasted
threshold,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia,
returning
for
the
nonce
to
the
hearty
argot
of
the
hunting
field,
“everything’s
been
at
sixes
and
sevens.
First
there
was
that
mix-up
about
the
prize-giving.”
She
paused
at
this
point
and
gave
me
a
look.
“I
had
been
meaning
to
speak
freely
to
you
about
your
behaviour
in
that
matter,
Bertie,”
she
said.
“I
had
some
good
things
all
stored
up.
But,
as
you’ve
rallied
round
like
this,
I
suppose
I
shall
have
to
let
you
off.
And,
anyway,
it
is
probably
all
for
the
best
that
you
evaded
your
obligations
in
that
sickeningly
craven
way.
I
have
an
idea
that
this
Spink-Bottle
of
yours
is
going
to
be
good.
If
only
he
can
keep
off
newts.”
“Has
he
been
talking
about
newts?”
“He
has.
Fixing
me
with
a
glittering
eye,
like
the
Ancient
Mariner.
But
if
that
was
the
worst
I
had
to
bear,
I
wouldn’t
mind.
What
I’m
worrying
about
is
what
Tom
says
when
he
starts
talking.”
“Uncle
Tom?”
“I
wish
there
was
something
else
you
could
call
him
except
‘Uncle
Tom’,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia
a
little
testily.
“Every
time
you
do
it,
I
expect
to
see
him
turn
black
and
start
playing
the
banjo.
Yes,
Uncle
Tom,
if
you
must
have
it.
I
shall
have
to
tell
him
soon
about
losing
all
that
money
at
baccarat,
and,
when
I
do,
he
will
go
up
like
a
rocket.”
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