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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
82
Conditions
being
as
they
were
at
Brinkley
Court--I
mean
to
say,
the
place
being
loaded
down
above
the
Plimsoll
mark
with
aching
hearts
and
standing
room
only
as
regarded
tortured
souls--I
hadn’t
expected
the
evening
meal
to
be
particularly
effervescent.
Nor
was
it.
Silent.
Sombre.
The
whole
thing
more
than
a
bit
like
Christmas
dinner
on
Devil’s
Island.
I
was
glad
when
it
was
over.
What
with
having,
on
top
of
her
other
troubles,
to
rein
herself
back
from
the
trough,
Aunt
Dahlia
was
a
total
loss
as
far
as
anything
in
the
shape
of
brilliant
badinage
was
concerned.
The
fact
that
he
was
fifty
quid
in
the
red
and
expecting
Civilisation
to
take
a
toss
at
any
moment
had
caused
Uncle
Tom,
who
always
looked
a
bit
like
a
pterodactyl
with
a
secret
sorrow,
to
take
on
a
deeper
melancholy.
The
Bassett
was
a
silent
bread
crumbler.
Angela
might
have
been
hewn
from
the
living
rock.
Tuppy
had
the
air
of
a
condemned
murderer
refusing
to
make
the
usual
hearty
breakfast
before
tooling
off
to
the
execution
shed.
And
as
for
Gussie
Fink-Nottle,
many
an
experienced
undertaker
would
have
been
deceived
by
his
appearance
and
started
embalming
him
on
sight.
This
was
the
first
glimpse
I
had
had
of
Gussie
since
we
parted
at
my
flat,
and
I
must
say
his
demeanour
disappointed
me.
I
had
been
expecting
something
a
great
deal
more
sparkling.
At
my
flat,
on
the
occasion
alluded
to,
he
had,
if
you
recall,
practically
given
me
a
signed
guarantee
that
all
he
needed
to
touch
him
off
was
a
rural
setting.
Yet
in
this
aspect
now
I
could
detect
no
indication
whatsoever
that
he
was
about
to
round
into
mid-season
form.
He
still
looked
like
a
cat
in
an
adage,
and
it
did
not
take
me
long
to
realise
that
my
very
first
act
on
escaping
from
this
morgue
must
be
to
draw
him
aside
and
give
him
a
pep
talk.
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