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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
95
She
seemed
to
shimmy
a
bit.
Her
voice,
when
she
spoke,
was
whispery:
“You
mean--for
love?”
“Absolutely.
Right
on
the
bull’s-eye.
For
love.”
“Oh,
Mr.
Wooster!”
“I
take
it
you
believe
in
love
at
first
sight?”
“I
do,
indeed.”
“Well,
that’s
what
happened
to
this
aching
heart.
It
fell
in
love
at
first
sight,
and
ever
since
it’s
been
eating
itself
out,
as
I
believe
the
expression
is.”
There
was
a
silence.
She
had
turned
away
and
was
watching
a
duck
out
on
the
lake.
It
was
tucking
into
weeds,
a
thing
I’ve
never
been
able
to
understand
anyone
wanting
to
do.
Though
I
suppose,
if
you
face
it
squarely,
they’re
no
worse
than
spinach.
She
stood
drinking
it
in
for
a
bit,
and
then
it
suddenly
stood
on
its
head
and
disappeared,
and
this
seemed
to
break
the
spell.
“Oh,
Mr.
Wooster!”
she
said
again,
and
from
the
tone
of
her
voice,
I
could
see
that
I
had
got
her
going.
“For
you,
I
mean
to
say,”
I
proceeded,
starting
to
put
in
the
fancy
touches.
I
dare
say
you
have
noticed
on
these
occasions
that
the
difficulty
is
to
plant
the
main
idea,
to
get
the
general
outline
of
the
thing
well
fixed.
The
rest
is
mere
detail
work.
I
don’t
say
I
became
glib
at
this
juncture,
but
I
certainly
became
a
dashed
glibber
than
I
had
been.
“It’s
having
the
dickens
of
a
time.
Can’t
eat,
can’t
sleep--all
for
love
of
you.
And
what
makes
it
all
so
particularly
rotten
is
that
it--this
aching
heart--can’t
bring
itself
up
to
the
scratch
and
tell
you
the
position
of
affairs,
because
your
profile
has
gone
and
given
it
cold
feet.
Just
as
it
is
about
to
speak,
it
catches
sight
of
you
sideways,
and
words
fail
it.
Silly,
of
course,
but
there
it
is.”
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