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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
67
I
began
to
see
that
the
situation
would
require
all
my
address
and
ingenuity.
If
the
wedding
bells
were
ever
to
ring
out
in
the
little
church
of
Market
Snodsbury,
Bertram
had
plainly
got
to
put
in
some
shrewdish
work.
I
had
gathered,
during
my
conversation
with
Aunt
Dahlia,
that
there
had
been
a
certain
amount
of
frank
speech
between
the
two
contracting
parties,
but
I
had
not
realized
till
now
that
matters
had
gone
so
far.
The
pathos
of
the
thing
gave
me
the
pip.
Tuppy
had
admitted
in
so
many
words
that
love
still
animated
the
Glossop
bosom,
and
I
was
convinced
that,
even
after
all
that
occurred,
Angela
had
not
ceased
to
love
him.
At
the
moment,
no
doubt,
she
might
be
wishing
that
she
could
hit
him
with
a
bottle,
but
deep
down
in
her
I
was
prepared
to
bet
that
there
still
lingered
all
the
old
affection
and
tenderness.
Only
injured
pride
was
keeping
these
two
apart,
and
I
felt
that
if
Tuppy
would
make
the
first
move,
all
would
be
well.
I
had
another
whack
at
it.
“She’s
broken-hearted
about
this
rift,
Tuppy.”
“How
do
you
know?
Have
you
seen
her?”
“No,
but
I’ll
bet
she
is.”
“She
doesn’t
look
it.”
“Wearing
the
mask,
no
doubt.
Jeeves
does
that
when
I
assert
my
authority.”
“She
wrinkles
her
nose
at
me
as
if
I
were
a
drain
that
had
got
out
of
order.”
“Merely
the
mask.
I
feel
convinced
she
loves
you
still,
and
that
a
kindly
word
from
you
is
all
that
is
required.”
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