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Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
99
“I
wish
I
could,”
she
murmured.
“Could?”
I
said,
for
my
attensh
had
been
wandering.
“Feel
towards
you
as
you
would
like
me
to
feel.”
“Oh,
ah.”
“But
I
can’t.
I’m
sorry.”
“Absolutely
O.K.
Faults
on
both
sides,
no
doubt.”
“Because
I
am
fond
of
you,
Mr.--no,
I
think
I
must
call
you
Bertie.
May
I?”
“Oh,
rather.”
“Because
we
are
real
friends.”
“Quite.”
“I
do
like
you,
Bertie.
And
if
things
were
different--I
wonder----”
“Eh?”
“After
all,
we
are
real
friends....
We
have
this
common
memory....
You
have
a
right
to
know....
I
don’t
want
you
to
think----Life
is
such
a
muddle,
isn’t
it?”
To
many
men,
no
doubt,
these
broken
utterances
would
have
appeared
mere
drooling
and
would
have
been
dismissed
as
such.
But
the
Woosters
are
quicker-witted
than
the
ordinary
and
can
read
between
the
lines.
I
suddenly
divined
what
it
was
that
she
was
trying
to
get
off
the
chest.
“You
mean
there’s
someone
else?”
She
nodded.
“You’re
in
love
with
some
other
bloke?”
She
nodded.
“Engaged,
what?”
This
time
she
shook
the
pumpkin.
“No,
not
engaged.”
Well,
that
was
something,
of
course.
Nevertheless,
from
the
way
she
spoke,
it
certainly
looked
as
if
poor
old
Gussie
might
as
well
scratch
his
name
off
the
entry
list,
and
I
didn’t
at
all
like
the
prospect
of
having
to
break
the
bad
news
to
him.
I
had
studied
the
man
closely,
and
it
was
my
conviction
that
this
would
about
be
his
finish.
Gussie,
you
see,
wasn’t
like
some
of
my
pals--the
name
of
Bingo
Little
is
one
that
springs
to
the
lips--who,
if
turned
down
by
a
girl,
would
simply
say,
“Well,
bung-oh!”
and
toddle
off
quite
happily
to
find
another.
He
was
so
manifestly
a
bird
who,
having
failed
to
score
in
the
first
chukker,
would
turn
the
thing
up
and
spend
the
rest
of
his
life
brooding
over
his
newts
and
growing
long
grey
whiskers,
like
one
of
those
chaps
you
read
about
in
novels,
who
live
in
the
great
white
house
you
can
just
see
over
there
through
the
trees
and
shut
themselves
off
from
the
world
and
have
pained
faces.
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