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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
55
“If
it
wasn’t
for
Anatole’s
cooking,
I
doubt
if
he
would
bother
to
carry
on.
Thank
God
for
Anatole,
I
say.”
I
bowed
my
head
reverently.
“Good
old
Anatole,”
I
said.
“Amen,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia.
Then
the
look
of
holy
ecstasy,
which
is
always
the
result
of
letting
the
mind
dwell,
however
briefly,
on
Anatole’s
cooking,
died
out
of
her
face.
“But
don’t
let
me
wander
from
the
subject,”
she
resumed.
“I
was
telling
you
of
the
way
hell’s
foundations
have
been
quivering
since
I
got
home.
First
the
prize-giving,
then
Tom,
and
now,
on
top
of
everything
else,
this
infernal
quarrel
between
Angela
and
young
Glossop.”
I
nodded
gravely.
“I
was
frightfully
sorry
to
hear
of
that.
Terrible
shock.
What
was
the
row
about?”
“Sharks.”
“Eh?”
“Sharks.
Or,
rather,
one
individual
shark.
The
brute
that
went
for
the
poor
child
when
she
was
aquaplaning
at
Cannes.
You
remember
Angela’s
shark?”
Certainly
I
remembered
Angela’s
shark.
A
man
of
sensibility
does
not
forget
about
a
cousin
nearly
being
chewed
by
monsters
of
the
deep.
The
episode
was
still
green
in
my
memory.
In
a
nutshell,
what
had
occurred
was
this:
You
know
how
you
aquaplane.
A
motor-boat
nips
on
ahead,
trailing
a
rope.
You
stand
on
a
board,
holding
the
rope,
and
the
boat
tows
you
along.
And
every
now
and
then
you
lose
your
grip
on
the
rope
and
plunge
into
the
sea
and
have
to
swim
to
your
board
again.
A
silly
process
it
has
always
seemed
to
me,
though
many
find
it
diverting.
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