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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
98
The
word
was
like
one
of
Jeeves’s
pick-me-ups.
Just
as
if
a
glassful
of
meat
sauce,
red
pepper,
and
the
yolk
of
an
egg--though,
as
I
say,
I
am
convinced
that
these
are
not
the
sole
ingredients--had
been
shot
into
me,
I
expanded
like
some
lovely
flower
blossoming
in
the
sunshine.
It
was
all
right,
after
all.
My
guardian
angel
had
not
been
asleep
at
the
switch.
“--but
I
am
afraid
it
is
impossible.”
She
paused.
“Impossible,”
she
repeated.
I
had
been
so
busy
feeling
saved
from
the
scaffold
that
I
didn’t
get
on
to
it
for
a
moment
that
an
early
reply
was
desired.
“Oh,
right
ho,”
I
said
hastily.
“I’m
sorry.”
“Quite
all
right.”
“Sorrier
than
I
can
say.”
“Don’t
give
it
another
thought.”
“We
can
still
be
friends.”
“Oh,
rather.”
“Then
shall
we
just
say
no
more
about
it;
keep
what
has
happened
as
a
tender
little
secret
between
ourselves?”
“Absolutely.”
“We
will.
Like
something
lovely
and
fragrant
laid
away
in
lavender.”
“In
lavender--right.”
There
was
a
longish
pause.
She
was
gazing
at
me
in
a
divinely
pitying
sort
of
way,
much
as
if
I
had
been
a
snail
she
had
happened
accidentally
to
bring
her
short
French
vamp
down
on,
and
I
longed
to
tell
her
that
it
was
all
right,
and
that
Bertram,
so
far
from
being
the
victim
of
despair,
had
never
felt
fizzier
in
his
life.
But,
of
course,
one
can’t
do
that
sort
of
thing.
I
simply
said
nothing,
and
stood
there
looking
brave.
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