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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
61
“No,
thanks.”
“I
say
to
myself----”
“But
not
to
me.”
“Do
listen
for
a
second.”
“I
won’t.”
“Right
ho,
then.
I
am
dumb.”
“And
have
been
from
a
child.”
I
perceived
that
little
good
could
result
from
continuing
the
discussion.
I
waved
a
hand
and
shrugged
a
shoulder.
“Very
well,
Aunt
Dahlia,”
I
said,
with
dignity,
“if
you
don’t
want
to
be
in
on
the
ground
floor,
that
is
your
affair.
But
you
are
missing
an
intellectual
treat.
And,
anyway,
no
matter
how
much
you
may
behave
like
the
deaf
adder
of
Scripture
which,
as
you
are
doubtless
aware,
the
more
one
piped,
the
less
it
danced,
or
words
to
that
effect,
I
shall
carry
on
as
planned.
I
am
extremely
fond
of
Angela,
and
I
shall
spare
no
effort
to
bring
the
sunshine
back
into
her
heart.”
“Bertie,
you
abysmal
chump,
I
appeal
to
you
once
more.
Will
you
please
lay
off?
You’ll
only
make
things
ten
times
as
bad
as
they
are
already.”
I
remember
reading
in
one
of
those
historical
novels
once
about
a
chap--a
buck
he
would
have
been,
no
doubt,
or
a
macaroni
or
some
such
bird
as
that--who,
when
people
said
the
wrong
thing,
merely
laughed
down
from
lazy
eyelids
and
flicked
a
speck
of
dust
from
the
irreproachable
Mechlin
lace
at
his
wrists.
This
was
practically
what
I
did
now.
At
least,
I
straightened
my
tie
and
smiled
one
of
those
inscrutable
smiles
of
mine.
I
then
withdrew
and
went
out
for
a
saunter
in
the
garden.
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