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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
88
She
starts.
She
moves.
She
seems
to
feel
The
stir
of
life
along
her
keel.
And
what
I’m
driving
at
is
that
you
couldn’t
get
a
better
description
of
what
happened
to
Gussie
as
I
spoke
these
heartening
words.
His
brow
cleared,
his
eyes
brightened,
he
lost
that
fishy
look,
and
he
gazed
at
the
slug,
which
was
still
on
the
long,
long
trail
with
something
approaching
bonhomie.
A
marked
improvement.
“I
see
what
you
mean.
You
will
sort
of
pave
the
way,
as
it
were.”
“That’s
right.
Spadework.”
“It’s
a
terrific
idea,
Bertie.
It
will
make
all
the
difference.”
“Quite.
But
don’t
forget
that
after
that
it
will
be
up
to
you.
You
will
have
to
haul
up
your
slacks
and
give
her
the
old
oil,
or
my
efforts
will
have
been
in
vain.”
Something
of
his
former
Gawd-help-us-ness
seemed
to
return
to
him.
He
gasped
a
bit.
“That’s
true.
What
the
dickens
shall
I
say?”
I
restrained
my
impatience
with
an
effort.
The
man
had
been
at
school
with
me.
“Dash
it,
there
are
hundreds
of
things
you
can
say.
Talk
about
the
sunset.”
“The
sunset?”
“Certainly.
Half
the
married
men
you
meet
began
by
talking
about
the
sunset.”
“But
what
can
I
say
about
the
sunset?”
“Well,
Jeeves
got
off
a
good
one
the
other
day.
I
met
him
airing
the
dog
in
the
park
one
evening,
and
he
said,
‘Now
fades
the
glimmering
landscape
on
the
sight,
sir,
and
all
the
air
a
solemn
stillness
holds.’
You
might
use
that.”
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