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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
69
“Quite,
quite.
All
I
meant
was
that
if
she
sees
you
push
away
your
dinner
untasted,
she
will
realize
that
your
heart
is
aching,
and
will
probably
be
the
first
to
suggest
blowing
the
all
clear.”
Tuppy
was
frowning
thoughtfully.
“Push
my
dinner
away,
eh?”
“Yes.”
“Push
away
a
dinner
cooked
by
Anatole?”
“Yes.”
“Push
it
away
untasted?”
“Yes.”
“Let
us
get
this
straight.
Tonight,
at
dinner,
when
the
butler
offers
me
a
ris
de
veau
à
la
financiere,
or
whatever
it
may
be,
hot
from
Anatole’s
hands,
you
wish
me
to
push
it
away
untasted?”
“Yes.”
He
chewed
his
lip.
One
could
sense
the
struggle
going
on
within.
And
then
suddenly
a
sort
of
glow
came
into
his
face.
The
old
martyrs
probably
used
to
look
like
that.
“All
right.”
“You’ll
do
it?”
“I
will.”
“Fine.”
“Of
course,
it
will
be
agony.”
I
pointed
out
the
silver
lining.
“Only
for
the
moment.
You
could
slip
down
tonight,
after
everyone
is
in
bed,
and
raid
the
larder.”
He
brightened.
“That’s
right.
I
could,
couldn’t
I?”
“I
expect
there
would
be
something
cold
there.”
“There
is
something
cold
there,”
said
Tuppy,
with
growing
cheerfulness.
“A
steak-and-kidney
pie.
We
had
it
for
lunch
today.
One
of
Anatole’s
ripest.
The
thing
I
admire
about
that
man,”
said
Tuppy
reverently,
“the
thing
that
I
admire
so
enormously
about
Anatole
is
that,
though
a
Frenchman,
he
does
not,
like
so
many
of
these
chefs,
confine
himself
exclusively
to
French
dishes,
but
is
always
willing
and
ready
to
weigh
in
with
some
good
old
simple
English
fare
such
as
this
steak-and-kidney
pie
to
which
I
have
alluded.
A
masterly
pie,
Bertie,
and
it
wasn’t
more
than
half
finished.
It
will
do
me
nicely.”
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