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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
65
I
saw
that
he
was
struggling
with
some
powerful
emotion.
“And
what
about
my
side
of
the
thing?”
he
demanded,
in
a
voice
choked
with
feeling.
“Your
side?”
“You
don’t
suppose,”
said
Tuppy,
with
rising
vehemence,
“that
I
would
have
exposed
this
dashed
synthetic
shark
for
the
flatfish
it
undoubtedly
was
if
there
had
not
been
causes
that
led
up
to
it.
What
induced
me
to
speak
as
I
did
was
the
fact
that
Angela,
the
little
squirt,
had
just
been
most
offensive,
and
I
seized
the
opportunity
to
get
a
bit
of
my
own
back.”
“Offensive?”
“Exceedingly
offensive.
Purely
on
the
strength
of
my
having
let
fall
some
casual
remark--simply
by
way
of
saying
something
and
keeping
the
conversation
going--to
the
effect
that
I
wondered
what
Anatole
was
going
to
give
us
for
dinner,
she
said
that
I
was
too
material
and
ought
not
always
to
be
thinking
of
food.
Material,
my
elbow!
As
a
matter
of
fact,
I’m
particularly
spiritual.”
“Quite.”
“I
don’t
see
any
harm
in
wondering
what
Anatole
was
going
to
give
us
for
dinner.
Do
you?”
“Of
course
not.
A
mere
ordinary
tribute
of
respect
to
a
great
artist.”
“Exactly.”
“All
the
same----”
“Well?”
“I
was
only
going
to
say
that
it
seems
a
pity
that
the
frail
craft
of
love
should
come
a
stinker
like
this
when
a
few
manly
words
of
contrition----”
He
stared
at
me.
“You
aren’t
suggesting
that
I
should
climb
down?”
“It
would
be
the
fine,
big
thing,
old
egg.”
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