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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
77
“I
know
you
did,
Jeeves,”
I
said,
laughing
down
from
lazy
eyelids
and
nicking
a
speck
of
dust
from
the
irreproachable
Mechlin
lace
at
my
wrists.
“But
I
didn’t.
You
will
find
it
on
a
chair
in
the
hall
in
a
brown-paper
parcel.”
The
information
that
his
low
manoeuvres
had
been
rendered
null
and
void
and
that
the
thing
was
on
the
strength
after
all,
must
have
been
the
nastiest
of
jars,
but
there
was
no
play
of
expression
on
his
finely
chiselled
to
indicate
it.
There
very
seldom
is
on
Jeeves’s
f-c.
In
moments
of
discomfort,
as
I
had
told
Tuppy,
he
wears
a
mask,
preserving
throughout
the
quiet
stolidity
of
a
stuffed
moose.
“You
might
just
slide
down
and
fetch
it,
will
you?”
“Very
good,
sir.”
“Right
ho,
Jeeves.”
And
presently
I
was
sauntering
towards
the
drawing-room
with
the
good
old
j.
nestling
snugly
abaft
the
shoulder
blades.
And
Dahlia
was
in
the
drawing-room.
She
glanced
up
at
my
entrance.
“Hullo,
eyesore,”
she
said.
“What
do
you
think
you’re
made
up
as?”
I
did
not
get
the
purport.
“The
jacket,
you
mean?”
I
queried,
groping.
“I
do.
You
look
like
one
of
the
chorus
of
male
guests
at
Abernethy
Towers
in
Act
2
of
a
touring
musical
comedy.”
“You
do
not
admire
this
jacket?”
“I
do
not.”
“You
did
at
Cannes.”
“Well,
this
isn’t
Cannes.”
“But,
dash
it----”
“Oh,
never
mind.
Let
it
go.
If
you
want
to
give
my
butler
a
laugh,
what
does
it
matter?
What
does
anything
matter
now?”
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