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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
58
“Nothing
could
have
kept
me
away,”
I
replied,
touched.
“I
felt
you
needed
me.”
“Yes.”
“Quite.”
“Or,
rather,”
she
said,
“not
you,
of
course,
but
Jeeves.
The
minute
all
this
happened,
I
thought
of
him.
The
situation
obviously
cries
out
for
Jeeves.
If
ever
in
the
whole
history
of
human
affairs
there
was
a
moment
when
that
lofty
brain
was
required
about
the
home,
this
is
it.”
I
think,
if
I
had
been
standing
up,
I
would
have
staggered.
In
fact,
I’m
pretty
sure
I
would.
But
it
isn’t
so
dashed
easy
to
stagger
when
you’re
sitting
in
an
arm-chair.
Only
my
face,
therefore,
showed
how
deeply
I
had
been
stung
by
these
words.
Until
she
spoke
them,
I
had
been
all
sweetness
and
light--the
sympathetic
nephew
prepared
to
strain
every
nerve
to
do
his
bit.
I
now
froze,
and
the
face
became
hard
and
set.
“Jeeves!”
I
said,
between
clenched
teeth.
“Oom
beroofen,”
said
Aunt
Dahlia.
I
saw
that
she
had
got
the
wrong
angle.
“I
was
not
sneezing.
I
was
saying
‘Jeeves!’”
“And
well
you
may.
What
a
man!
I’m
going
to
put
the
whole
thing
up
to
him.
There’s
nobody
like
Jeeves.”
My
frigidity
became
more
marked.
“I
venture
to
take
issue
with
you,
Aunt
Dahlia.”
“You
take
what?”
“Issue.”
“You
do,
do
you?”
“I
emphatically
do.
Jeeves
is
hopeless.”
“What?”
“Quite
hopeless.
He
has
lost
his
grip
completely.
Only
a
couple
of
days
ago
I
was
compelled
to
take
him
off
a
case
because
his
handling
of
it
was
so
footling.
And,
anyway,
I
resent
this
assumption,
if
assumption
is
the
word
I
want,
that
Jeeves
is
the
only
fellow
with
brain.
I
object
to
the
way
everybody
puts
things
up
to
him
without
consulting
me
and
letting
me
have
a
stab
at
them
first.”
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