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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
92
Her
aspect
was
that
of
a
girl
who
was
expecting
something
fairly
fruity
from
Bertram.
In
these
circs.,
conversation
inevitably
flagged
a
bit.
I
am
never
at
my
best
when
the
situation
seems
to
call
for
a
certain
soupiness,
and
I’ve
heard
other
members
of
the
Drones
say
the
same
thing
about
themselves.
I
remember
Pongo
Twistleton
telling
me
that
he
was
out
in
a
gondola
with
a
girl
by
moonlight
once,
and
the
only
time
he
spoke
was
to
tell
her
that
old
story
about
the
chap
who
was
so
good
at
swimming
that
they
made
him
a
traffic
cop
in
Venice.
Fell
rather
flat,
he
assured
me,
and
it
wasn’t
much
later
when
the
girl
said
she
thought
it
was
getting
a
little
chilly
and
how
about
pushing
back
to
the
hotel.
So
now,
as
I
say,
the
talk
rather
hung
fire.
It
had
been
all
very
well
for
me
to
promise
Gussie
that
I
would
cut
loose
to
this
girl
about
aching
hearts,
but
you
want
a
cue
for
that
sort
of
thing.
And
when,
toddling
along,
we
reached
the
edge
of
the
lake
and
she
finally
spoke,
conceive
my
chagrin
when
I
discovered
that
what
she
was
talking
about
was
stars.
Not
a
bit
of
good
to
me.
“Oh,
look,”
she
said.
She
was
a
confirmed
Oh-looker.
I
had
noticed
this
at
Cannes,
where
she
had
drawn
my
attention
in
this
manner
on
various
occasions
to
such
diverse
objects
as
a
French
actress,
a
Provençal
filling
station,
the
sunset
over
the
Estorels,
Michael
Arlen,
a
man
selling
coloured
spectacles,
the
deep
velvet
blue
of
the
Mediterranean,
and
the
late
mayor
of
New
York
in
a
striped
one-piece
bathing
suit.
“Oh,
look
at
that
sweet
little
star
up
there
all
by
itself.”
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