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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
96
I
heard
her
give
a
gulp,
and
I
saw
that
her
eyes
had
become
moistish.
Drenched
irises,
if
you
care
to
put
it
that
way.
“Lend
you
a
handkerchief?”
“No,
thank
you.
I’m
quite
all
right.”
It
was
more
than
I
could
say
for
myself.
My
efforts
had
left
me
weak.
I
don’t
know
if
you
suffer
in
the
same
way,
but
with
me
the
act
of
talking
anything
in
the
nature
of
real
mashed
potatoes
always
induces
a
sort
of
prickly
sensation
and
a
hideous
feeling
of
shame,
together
with
a
marked
starting
of
the
pores.
I
remember
at
my
Aunt
Agatha’s
place
in
Hertfordshire
once
being
put
on
the
spot
and
forced
to
enact
the
role
of
King
Edward
III
saying
goodbye
to
that
girl
of
his,
Fair
Rosamund,
at
some
sort
of
pageant
in
aid
of
the
Distressed
Daughters
of
the
Clergy.
It
involved
some
rather
warmish
medieval
dialogue,
I
recall,
racy
of
the
days
when
they
called
a
spade
a
spade,
and
by
the
time
the
whistle
blew,
I’ll
bet
no
Daughter
of
the
Clergy
was
half
as
distressed
as
I
was.
Not
a
dry
stitch.
My
reaction
now
was
very
similar.
It
was
a
highly
liquid
Bertram
who,
hearing
his
vis-à-vis
give
a
couple
of
hiccups
and
start
to
speak
bent
an
attentive
ear.
“Please
don’t
say
any
more,
Mr.
Wooster.”
Well,
I
wasn’t
going
to,
of
course.
“I
understand.”
I
was
glad
to
hear
this.
“Yes,
I
understand.
I
won’t
be
so
silly
as
to
pretend
not
to
know
what
you
mean.
I
suspected
this
at
Cannes,
when
you
used
to
stand
and
stare
at
me
without
speaking
a
word,
but
with
whole
volumes
in
your
eyes.”
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